The Secret Life of Bees
by Pippi Blondestocking
Summary: What happens when Katniss finds she can no longer do something that used to define her? Can she find a new place for herself in the woods? How will she and Peeta make a new District 12 their home again? And how do Peeta and Katniss grow back together? Post-MJ, pre-Epilogue. Everyone has to make-up some time. M for language, implied violence, and emotional distress. Ch. 33 is up!
1. Chapter 1: Suzie Blue

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Suzie Blue _is by Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, and they belong to themselves (thanks for getting me through high school, guys. And yes, I know I'm dating myself).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey** (my beta and fangirl-in-crime) and **excitedlime!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Post-_Mockingjay_, pre-Epilogue. Katniss comes to find that the Capitol has taken something very dear from her, but spending more time with Peeta helps her find her true vocation and path in life. And what of Peeta? This is my (slightly non-canon) take on how Katniss and Peeta grow back together and learn to share life in the new District 12 and Panem. This will be an extended story with as many as 20 chapters—so get in it to win it.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who reviewed or favorited my story, _The Rites of Spring_, as well as those who added me to their favorite authors list! I was so overwhelmed and flattered, and it absolutely gave me the inspiration to write more for this fic! As always, any and all constructive comments, criticisms, and concerns are very, very welcome! I really appreciate the love, and hope that this delivers for you!**

Chapter 1: _Suzie Blue_

_Won't you sing me the blues,_

_Won't you sing me the blues?_

_Sing me something my heart can use; _

_misery loves a symphony._

Well, this is just _great_, I think to myself, sulking in the tree branches. A huntress who can't _hunt_. That's like a painter who can't _paint_. A baker who can't _bake_. A mother who can't _love_. Heh. I laugh out loud. _Story of my so-called life_. But I can't hunt. I really can't. And I've been trying to make a kill since I returned to District 12. (Which is now known simply as "Appalachia"—who the hell comes up with these names? Plutarch says it has something to do with the history of North America, but I think he's talking out of his ass.) And every single goddamn time, I can't. It's like I'm—what would Haymitch call it?—oh right, _I'm cock-blocking myself_. So I just sit and hide in trees or in the underbrush, or hell, sometimes I just perch on a rock and watch the animals. One time I got so lost in thought watching the fish swim in the lake that I didn't notice when the sun went down and the moon came up and I didn't get home until dawn. But mostly, I just sit and watch and think, and then I think some more, and then when I raise my bow and set my arrow to catch my prey, my arm goes limp and my head throbs, right above my left brow. I'm pathetic. How am I going to survive if I can't feed myself, feed my fam—heh. I don't have a family anymore. It doesn't matter if I survive or not. I'm starting to think that the animals in the forest are laughing at me. Losers.

_Does your face, your pretty face get lost in a crowd? _

_And you say no one's there_

_to hear you cry out loud- _

_What will you do, Suzie Blue?_

I return home empty-handed, the same way I have every afternoon since I was dumped in this forsaken hell hole three months ago, right before the dead of winter. I put my hunting gear away in the "mudroom" and hang my father's jacket on its proper hook. (I will never ever forgive the Capitol and Effie for making me learn all of the useless names for these useless rooms in this giant empty house. It makes me feel superficial.) I go upstairs (there are sixteen steps, in case anyone was wondering) and I throw myself in the shower. Full steam ahead! I joke to myself as the shower fogs up. I really, really hate being naked. Nothing good ever came of being naked. Before I can really think about it, I'm out of the shower, toweling off, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. At least my hair is finally one length, even if it does only graze my shoulders. My hair; my beautiful hair; my one true beauty. Flavius insists that it will grow back, but I think he's full of shit. Even though I am still damp, I tug on a pair of jeans and a tee and shove my feet into my shoes. I can hear Greasy Sae downstairs, starting dinner, and I really don't want to be late.

It doesn't matter what Sae is cooking, because I am starving. As usual, Haymitch stumbles into my living room completely hammered, and Peeta follows him quietly, rolling his eyes and trying to hide his laughter. We've been doing this every night since he got home, what, maybe a month or so ago? The company leaves something to be desired, but I am grateful nonetheless. Without Sae and Peeta, I'm likely to starve to death and Buttercup would eat my face off. But every night, Sae cooks us dinner, and every night (at least since he planted the primroses), Peeta joins me. Tonight is like any other night. After Sae leaves, we serve ourselves (and Haymitch, because he is consistently too drunk to function), and talk about our day. My day is by far the most dull. And pathetic. Always. Peeta always chuckles.

"Well, did you see anything new today? Any wildlife returning?" he asks excitedly (just like he does every other night).

"Lot of tracker jackers," I answer, without even thinking. _Oops._ I know how much this is going to upset him. He nods and narrows his eyes and strokes his chin. I'm worried that he's about to have an episode and there's Haymitch, pouring his wine on his potatoes.

"Sucks to you."

_Where did you learn to do that so well? _

_Where did you learn to do that so well? _

_I guess that would be like kiss and tell._

_If it's a secret, why did you show me? _

Unlike me, Peeta keeps himself busy. He bakes. He paints. He goes into town to help with the rebuilding efforts. He's helping with the plans, but I know he'd rather be in his kitchen. But this work gives Peeta a sense of purpose, a sense of value, a sense of worth, and most importantly, belonging. He talks with everyone in town and always makes cookies for the families returning. This labor, this work—it fills him out. He has broad shoulders and muscles and a strong straight back, and sometimes when I look at him I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. And he's still growing, so now he's even taller than me. But now, maybe I think his time in town is keeping his mind off shitty things, and I've gone and brought them up again. I'm so dumb.

He puts his fork down and takes a sip of his wine. It looks like he's musing about something in his head. "It's funny you should mention that today, Katniss," Peeta says finally. "This afternoon, I was talking to Thom about the forest and getting some more lumber, and he told me that the men are having a tough time getting wood because they keep getting stung by feral tracker jackers. Without the Capitol to keep the population in check, they've been running wild. It's becoming a big problem." And then he looked at me with those baby blue eyes and I am overwhelmed with guilt.

"Sucks," I reply, finishing my wine in one gulp. We finish the dishes in silence and let Haymitch sleep it off in his chair before heading to the dining room. Every night, we work on the Tribute book. I write something, he draws something, and together, we remember. Some nights are harder than others. This is one of those nights.

_But you're far away from the love you used to hold, _

_don't sit and watch your self grow old-_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue,_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue._

"Katniss, what's wrong?" Peeta asks, biting his lower lip. I'm looking at his hands, his beautiful, calloused hands; the hands of a baker and a painter and a lover…

"Nothing," I say, smoothing down the page. _Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss, think unsexy thoughts. _I blow on it to help the ink dry. _Worst. Seduction. Ever_. I think in my brain. I am flirting subconsciously, but I'm doing it really, really badly.

"Nope, something is wrong, what's bothering you?" Goddammit Peeta, why do you have to be so _good_ and _nice_ when I'm such a bitch?

I look up at him. He's propped up on his elbows, blue eyes looking right at me.

"I'm shit for hunting, Peeta. What good is a hunter who can't hunt? I'm lame. I'm barren. I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE WITH MY CATS." He smirks and pushes some golden hair out of his eyelashes.

"I think you're really jumping the gun with the cats thing, Katniss. You only have one cat. And you're the best hunter I know. That District 12 has ever known—"

"I'm going to die alone by starving to death because I can't take care of myself because I'm not a functional human being." He shakes his head.

"Nope, wrong again. You're not going to die alone. You can't die alone. You have me."

Oh God, now we're going to play Twenty Questions. At some point, every night, our conversation devolves into Real, Not Real, and I want to drink all the wine.

_Real life has let you down,_

_Real life has let you down._

_Someone stripped the jewel from your crown _

_Everybody owes somebody something._

"I'm going to die alone," I hiss under my breath.

"Not real," Peeta hums. "I'm going to be there with you, because we protect each other."

"Real," I gulp. Now he's holding my hand and rubbing it and my God, my hand's on fire… "Because we take of care each other."

"Real," he says, never letting go of my hand. "Because we need one another to survive."

"Real," I mutter quietly, gazing at his calloused hands. "Because we lo—" I choke on my own words. I look down at the book. We've just finished Glimmer. He made her hair look so shiny. Peeta knows what I was going to say and just smiles.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," he says, and lets go of my hand. "Sleep, okay?" It's never "_sleep tight, sweet dreams_" with us, it's always just "**try to sleep for the love of all that is good and holy, okay**?"

I nod grimly. We're so full of shit. "You, too. You know how to find me." It's his turn to nod, and then he's out like a thief in the night. Heh. Sleep. Sleep is overrated. I walk by a snoozing Haymitch on my couch, and hope that Buttercup eats his face off.

_Kissing from heaven in your arms _

_And we'll make love to the memories_

_They will always see us through, Suzie Blue._

_The day is new, Suzie Blue,_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue._


	2. Chapter 2: Beloved One

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Beloved One _is again by Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals (you can find it on _Burn to Shine, _along with _Suzie Blue_). (There's a lot of Ben Harper on my Katniss/Peeta playlist, btdubs.)

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **excitedlime!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss has a rotten nightmare, and Peeta is there to comfort her. What's bothering Katniss?

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **I feel like Katniss' nightmares in the epilogue are one of the most important details in the story, but that her hope overcomes her fears with the help of Peeta. This is them trying to work it out together. Thank you for your reviews, I really appreciate every word of support and criticisms!

Chapter 2: _Beloved One_

_We have both been here before-_

_Knockin' upon love's door,_

_Begging for someone to let us in._

_Knowing this we can agree to keep each other company, _

_Never to go down that road again_.

Sleep is for the weak, I've decided. I can't sleep. I haven't slept since they tried to wean me off the morphling. I usually come to, tangled in my blankets, freezing to death but breaking out in a vicious cold sweat. I'm a hot mess. Oh, and to make it even sexier, I'm usually screaming and thrashing about, but I'm not kicking unseen demon ass and taking unseen demon names—they're taking me. _I'm a winner._

Tonight, I fall into bed, and hope that the red wine and tryptophan in my stomach allow me to get a few hours of sleep. Food comas are the best, I think. Real comas suck, but they beat dealing with reality. As I start to nod off, I can see Peeta's window through my own. His light is on. I think he's painting. Maybe he's raging. I know that he has nightmares, too. Maybe he's seducing someone new. _Hell if I know_.

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one, _

_Your eyes shine through me-_

_You are so divine to me,_

_Your heart has a home in mine._

I'm in the forest. The earth is hot and damp beneath my feet from the late summer sun. The leaves above are lit by its rays, and the light is translucent and green and I feel like one with the forest. I'm finally back in my element. I sense some quick movement about ten yards away, behind an old felled tree. It's a doe. But I don't see a young deer, I see dinner. I see a leather jacket. I see survival. It's not me or the deer, and I know it's an unfair fight. It's so young and innocent, likely suckling at its mother's teat that very morning. And I'm going to kill it. It's going to be awesome. Awesome to feel that hot blood on my hands and feels its last breath go out against my arrow. And so I set my bow, and aim my arrow, and let the taut string go. All I can hear is the sound of the arrow through the wind, and then it sears into the doe's flesh. It crumples behind the log. I run over as quietly as I can, excitedly peering down to examine my kill. But it isn't a doe. It's Rue. And I've just shot her through the stomach.

_We won't have to say a word -_

_With a touch all shall be heard,_

_When I search my heart it's you I find._

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one._

"RUE!" I scream frantically, scrambling over the tree to come to her side. Her eyes—her sad, wide, deep-brown, doe eyes—look back at me with fear and horror. Her tiny body is twitching beneath me, but she can't move, because my arrow is now a spear that has pinned her to the ground. I'm screaming, I'm crying, I'm tearing at the earth to free her. I don't even think I'm yelling real words. I've become an Avox, guttural and tongue-less. I'm screaming throaty syllables and sounds and I can feel Rue fading beneath me.

"Katniss, how could you? Life is not yours to use and take freely," Rue says sweetly—probably with her last breath. "It's not yours to take- does life even mean anything to you anymore?" And now she can't speak because blood is gurgling out of her mouth and eyes and ears and OH GOD ALL THE BLOOD. I don't even have time to get flowers, because the earth opens up and swallows her whole. I find my tongue.

"RUE! RUE! COME BACK! I'M SO SORRY! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A DEER!" But that's just it—I saw her as an animal, not even a human being, just something to sustain me and give me life. I can't even distinguish between human and animal anymore. And then, just as I feel the earth swallowing me up, I come to.

It's not even as nice day as I come to. I find myself at the other end of my bed, swaddled in damp blankets, dripping with cold sweat, and my throat hurts. My hands are shaking as I peer out from behind my blanket. The sky is grey. I can hear rain on the window and the wind shaking the trees. The wind tells me that spring is giving way to summer. I let the blanket fall from my face, and I see Peeta, sitting in my rocking chair, judging me.

_You were meant for me, _

_I believe you were sent to me, _

_From a dream straight into my heart._

_Hold your body close to me,_

_You mean most to me-_

_We will keep each other safe from harm._

"GET OUT!" I shriek, pulling the blanket back over my head. "GET THE FUCK OUT. I'M NOT PLAYING THIS BULLSHIT TODAY."

I hear his footsteps head toward the door, and I hear the door swing shut. I'm relieved. I think he's left. Left me here in my misery, all alone, just like it should be. And then I hear the lock turn.

"I'm not leaving, Katniss. You're a wreck." Peeta is still in my room, leaning against the door. "Greasy Sae came over to make breakfast, and when she heard you screaming, she came and got me and then she left. And now we're here."

I don't know what to say to him. I'm pissed. I want him to leave. I want to sit here in my anger and wallow in my pity and he just won't let me. Five minutes pass. He's still standing at my door. I come out from my covers.

"It's Rue, Peeta, it's Rue… I killed her, in my nightmare. It's… my fault she's dead, anyway," I whisper. I don't want to say it too loud. I'm admitting it to myself for the first time in a long time.

Peeta shakes his head. "Not real, Katniss. You tried to save her. You buried her. You sang to her. You thanked her district. Real."

I shrug, letting the blanket fall away from my shoulders. My skin comes into contact with the cold air. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm practically naked. I grab the blanket and wrap it around myself. Peeta hasn't left the door. But now he steps gingerly toward my bed. His eyes look muddled and confused, so I tense up. He stretches his arms out toward me, and I expect the worst.

But instead I find myself falling into his arms. "Do you want a hug?" he says glumly as I wrap myself around him.

"Yes," I muffle into his neck. Peeta is strong and warm and steady and so comfortable… this is the first hug we've had since we were in the tunnels in the Capitol. He feels like the old Peeta again, not a hollow shell of a boy, but a man. He feels like a man. I look and feel like a twelve year old girl, and now I'm wailing into his welcoming shoulders like a child. And at the same time, I'm strangely aroused. He smells really nice, like rising yeast and wood chips. And then I remember why he's here. And why he's returning my hug, nearly crushing my ribs but not quite.

_My beloved one, _

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one, _

_My beloved one._


	3. Chapter 3: Ballerina

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Ballerina_ belongs to Leona Naess, and I use it because it reminds me of Katniss and Peeta's relationship in _Mockingjay _where she realizes that she loves him and cannot have him. (Ugly sobbing.)

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina (**and check out her story, _A Thousand Kisses Deep)_**!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta comforts Katniss after a nightmare, and she opens up to him about a new weakness.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Thank you as always for the reviews and kind words. I know it's a bit AU/OOC—I just can't see Katniss returning to the hunt after the Games. And I'm trying to heat things up—just kind of slowly. I'm not sure myself how quickly Peeta and Katniss grow back together, and I want them to take their time.

Chapter 3: _Ballerina_

_I'll never feel the weight of your hands_

_Inside mine like diamonds-_

_Lace-so fine, ballerina._

_Cupcake and my earthquake_

_Wakes me from my sleep that_

_Never comes, are you breathing_

_Waiting for me?_

"Come back to me," Peeta coos against my forehead, and I pull back.

"Always, Peeta, always," I mumur and look into his eyes, and I see that they're not dead—they're tortured. He knows what I'm going through, and it's killing him that he can't fix it. "Tell me what happened." He leans his chin on my forehead. He has stubble now. I can't stop thinking about how sexy stubble is on Peeta. I pull back and bite my lip. This part sucks. The talking part sucks. I'm no good at it. Dr. Aurelius says I need to talk to myself more. I tell him I think he's crazy and he's trying to make me go batshit crazy.

_I didn't really want you,_

_But I want you now-_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_I want to rescue- want to scream out loud._

I tell him about my nightmare, calmly recounting all the details. Our breathing has synced up, and I can feel our hearts beating as one, and I know that Peeta suffers from the same nightmares every night. I tell him about the mutts, and I feel his body harden and I worry that he's gone to a bad place, and that I've triggered a hijacking. But he just holds on tighter, so I tell him about everyone I see in my dreams. Prim and Rue and Thresh and Clove and Glimmer and Foxface and Cato and Boggs and Johanna and Finnick and Mags and Beetee and my mother and my father and Madge and Delly and Gale and his parents and all of the children in the Capitol and suddenly everyone blurs and I can't see through my tears or articulate words through my cries. So he just wraps his arms around my back, and lets me sob into his collarbone. He's got great bone structure. Peeta lets me come to.

_I didn't think I needed you_

_But I need you now-_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you crashing down_

_Into the empty world._

_The music stops,_

_I want to rescue- want to scream out loud_

_"You will always be mine."_

"Peeta, it's like when I see them in my nightmares, they're animals. I can't even see them as people. It's like I'm losing my humanity…" I've never even admitted this to myself, and now I'm telling Peeta. He nods. His eyes are so full of sadness. I can't stop talking. I have word vomit and it won't stop coming up. "Peeta… during the Games, I lost the ability to distinguish between animal and human. Everyone just became… the animal. And I was hunting them…"

"Not real, Katniss. Not real. You never lost yourself, you never lost your humanity. Don't think that they took that away from you. Don't let them win," he says, holding my face in his hands. "I have to tell myself every goddamn day that they didn't take that from me. That they tried in vain to take my humanity away from me. They didn't. And that I am still me. I am still Peeta Mellark. You are still Katniss Everdeen. We are alive. We survive. We are still ourselves. Battered, bruised, and broken. But we're still here. Don't let them take that away from you." His eyes and face are so sincere. I believe him.

_The room spins,_

_Pull you from me-_

_My body burns._

_Tell me all the rainbows,_

_The colors that the rain throws._

_Ballerina, dance softly,_

_She knows when to come only_

_When she's called on, slowly coming to—_

"That's a good pep talk," I laugh quietly. He's right. I have to keep living, or the Capitol wins. He nods, his nose touching mine. He strokes my cheek. Having a complete and utter breakdown isn't so bad after all.

"Katniss, what's bothering you? And don't give me a smart-ass answer."

I have to be honest with him. It's heartbreaking for me. The Capitol has taken something away from me, something I can never get back. But I have my Peeta. I have to be honest with him. He's the only person who really understands, the only one I can really trust. I'm just afraid to disappoint him.

"Peeta, I can't hunt anymore," I finally say numbly. He pulls me closer to him. I start crying again. Hot fucking train wreck mess. He rubs my back. I'm not supposed to be turned on. I am_. I'm so weak._

"That's okay," he says finally. But now I want to tell him why.

_I didn't really want you,_

_But I need you-_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out_

_Want to rescue- want to scream out loud._

"I CAN'T HUNT ANYMORE BECAUSE EVERY TIME I TRY TO KILL SOMETHING, IT'S LIKE I'M IN THE GAMES ALL OVER AGAIN AND I CAN'T BEAR TO TAKE ANYMORE LIFE. I JUST CAN'T DO IT. HUMAN, ANIMAL- IT'S ALL THE SAME TO ME NOW AND I CAN'T DO IT. IT'S NOT MY RIGHT, IT'S NOT MY PLACE, AND IT'S NOT MY CALLING TO TAKE LIFE AT WILL FOR MY PLEASURE AND SATISFACTION. NO MORE." Now I am in full melt-down mode. I am plastered against Peeta's chest and it feels great, because every time he draws a breath, I feel him expand with life against me. _In and out, in and out._

I compose myself. Kind of. I look into his eyes. They are warm now. He brushes my stringy wet hair out of my eyes. He cracks a smile.

"Sounds legitimate, Katniss." But I'm not done yet. So I keep rambling.

_I didn't think I wanted you,_

_But I want you now-_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you crashing down,_

_Into the empty world_

_The music stops,_

_I want to rescue- want to scream out loud,_

_"You will always be mine."_

"I just can't do it. Every life I take won't bring back the ones that I lost and took. And I just feel like when I'm hunting, I'm losing my humanity." _He nods, he gets it_. I have uncontrollable word vomit.

"I used to love hunting—how close I was to the earth, to the animal, to my father, to Gale. And the Capitol took that joy away from me, it took that interconnectedness and sense of belonging away from me. Hunting became a curse, not a gift. And I'll never get it back." I feel so badly—here's Peeta, comforting me, and I'm talking about Gale. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Real."

"I want to be a whole person again, but I'm never going to find myself if I force myself to do something that I've come to hate and strips me of my humanity."

"Real. You don't have to love it anymore. They turned your greatest talent into a weapon against you. So don't let them use it anymore." Peeta is a fucking sage. A national treasure. I've never been more aroused.

_So, so sorry-_

_Just come back for me now._

_So, so sorry-_

_Just come back to me now._

_Or soon…_

I swallow. Hard. I'm afraid that if I stop talking, he'll leave. And then I'll be alone with my thoughts and a cat that wants to eat my face off. "I'm… I'm not going to hunt anymore, Peeta." But now that I've said it, I am overwhelmed with the anxiety. How will I survive and take care of myself if I can't hunt for my own food?

"Good." He hasn't let me go yet. This is going swimmingly. "But? Say it, Katniss—admit it." He sounds like Dr. Aurelius. My heart is aching. My voice is breaking. Acceptance is the key to recovery.

"How will I survive?" I cry, letting more hot, wet tears spill onto his cheek. "How will I take care of myself? How will I take care of you? How will I survive? How will we survive? I CAN'T SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU."

Oh God, that's it. I sound like a teenage fangirl fawning over a Victor in the Capitol. He's going to think I sound like a ridiculous fool. He's going to pull away at any moment. But he doesn't. He cradles me against his chest, rubbing my back. I can feel his well-kept fingernails under the thin fabric of my tank top. _THINK UNSEXY THOUGHTS_. Finally, Peeta says something.

"Katniss, you don't have to survive alone. You have me."

"Real."

"We take care of each other."

"Real."

"I'm a baker- how are we going to starve? We're not. I can bake enough bread for the both of us."

"Real." I'm hugging him like I have never hugged anyone before. How silly of me to think that Peeta was going to let us starve. _Maybe I've already started to lose my mind_. And just like that, he holds me. He holds me for as long as I need him to.

_I didn't think I wanted you,_

_But I want you now,_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_Wanted to rescue- want to scream out loud…_

"Peeta?" I whisper into his ear. He grunts. "I didn't mean it… about Gale. I just… miss my best friend and hunting partner. But the Capitol took him away, too. In another life, he was another person. And he's gone, both by circumstance and by choice. But I don't need him to survive. I need you."

For awhile, Peeta is quiet. But then I feel him nod. "I understand. Always."

"Real," I breathe into his neck. His fingers are curling in my short dark hair. I feel like I can finally pull away. I hold his face between my hands, feeling his new stubble with a smile creeping across my face, scarlet blooming on my cheeks. I see scarlet speading on his cheeks, where my hands hold him fast. When I look to the window, the sun is setting in the west. It's Peeta's favorite time of day. "What time is it?"

Peeta snorts. "It's late. It's dinnertime."

"How long have we been here?"

"As long as it takes." He kisses the salty tears off my cheeks, and I feel his eyelashes against my skin, and my stomach turns wildly.

Wordlessly, we get up off the end of me bed, and we head downstairs. Peeta makes us breakfast for dinner. Haymitch does not come over, nor Greasy Sae. Just me and Peeta. It's not so bad. Just strange. We clean up. We don't work on the book that night. He holds me on the couch, in front of a roaring fire. Peeta kisses my forehead and goes home. I try to sleep, wrapped up on my couch. I don't know how well I slept, but at least my dreams were forgettable at best, and I woke up feeling as though I found something.

_I didn't think I needed you,_

_But I need you now-_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_I want to rescue-want to scream out loud_

_"That you will always be mine."_


	4. Chapter 4: That Teenage Feeling

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _That Teenage Feeling _belongs to Neko Case (and I recommend highly that you check out her body of work. It's like she's channeling Katniss Everdeen).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss tries to find a new hobby and find more ways to be with Peeta in the wake of her confession.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Many of you have asked how _The Secret Life of Bees _comes into the story at this juncture. I think it's very difficult, if not impossible, for Katniss to hunt like she used to before the Games, after everything she's been through. In particular, I think it really resonates with her when Gale tells her that hunting people is just like hunting animals. I also love how she and Peeta discuss how callously and recklessly they've taken human life in _Mockingjay_. I think she's grown up and changed, and while she loves the idea of hunting, she just can't bring herself to do it, because she is forever scarred. So she needs to find something else to do—which is what she is trying to do here. Katniss is also scared of her continued attraction to Peeta, so she's dealing with teenage hormones, too. Oy. Thanks for your reviews and support—please read and enjoy!

Chapter 4: _That Teenage Feeling_

_Now that we've met,_

_We can only laugh at these regrets._

I awake in my bed, all alone (save my covers). _Sucks to me_, I think. I try to remember what I'd been dreaming about. Nothing in particular. I grope the side of the bed next to me. _Nope, still alone_. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and hit the hardwood running. I run to my shower and turn the hot water on full blast, even if it is already eighty degrees outside and humid and muggy. I want everything to burn off of me and evaporate into hot mist like nothing and then go away when I turn the fan on. I can't face him after yesterday. If I see him, I'll become a hot mess, and I'm too proud for that. _Nay, too good for that_. He's not a saint. But he's pretty damn close. Now I'm thinking that I need a cold shower when I think about his body against mine. _THINK UNSEXY THOUGHTS._ I know that I have to face him at breakfast. For some reason my cheeks burn at this idea and my body flushes. Stupid body. He's so pretty. He makes me want to touch myself the way I so want him to touch me. I think hot showers should be illegal for the time being. I step out, I gasp (as I always do) at the cool air, and I dry off. I brush my hair today, and spray something in it that Octavia said would make it stronger AND grow faster. The Capitol and its promises.

_Common as a winter cold,_

_They're telephone poles._

Making my way downstairs, I decide that breakfast smells pretty great. Frying meat generally turns me on. I'm happy that Sae has returned. I'm happy that Peeta made biscuits. For the first time in my life, I'm rendered pretty speechless. I come into the kitchen, and Peeta is crawling around on all fours, playing with Sae's granddaughter. She's simple, but loves playing with Peeta. He catches her in his arms and showers her with sweet kisses. I'm not jealous. _AT ALL. _He reminds me of the way my father used to play with Prim and me, and my mother would smile at us.Sae says something about being glad that I'm not screaming this morning, and she leads her granddaughter out by the hand. Peeta is still panting on the floor, leaning against the cupboards. I lose my voice, again.

"Good morning," he says pointedly.

I choke back everything. "Morning." Am I always this difficult? Likely. I'm not one for the mornings.

"Sleep okay?"

"Okay. And you?" He smiles, and it breaks my heart. He's going to say something really nice.

"I slept," he says after a moment, his eyes clouding as he cracks his knuckles. A smirk creeps across his face.

_They follow each other, one, after another-_

_After another._

Usually, Greasy Sae and her little granddaughter stay with us for breakfast, and Haymitch falls through the door, desperate for sustenance after his latest bender. We've done this every morning since Peeta came home. This morning, it's just the two of us. You could cut the tension with a butterknife. We always have one cup of coffee each, and I am careful to remember that he doesn't take sugar. I like having some sweetness in my life.

"What are you-" I begin to say, and Peeta cuts me off.

"It's no good pretending that yesterday didn't happen, Katniss," Peeta says, buttering his biscuit with all seriousness.

"It did," I admit quietly, "I won't deny it."

"Today is most emphatically NOT a normal day."

"It could be…" and I trail off into my coffee. What is it with Peeta always making points? Before I know it, he's on my side of the table, grasping my hands so tightly that I think blood flow is an issue. His eyes are all doom and gloom. I've fucked up again.

"Today isn't a day like any other day that you've had here," he says harshly, "What have you done today that makes you feel proud?" I put my sausage down.

"I DON'T KNOW, I JUST WOKE UP. LAY OFF, ALREADY." I immediately regret my last words. He doesn't deserve to get yelled at. I lean forward and brush my lips against his. He tastes like butter. This isn't fair. And then out of nowhere, he laughs. Here I am, terrified that I'll break him, and he's laughing. He is blushing. I am making him blush.

_But now my heart is green as weeds,_

_Grown to outlive their season._

"You taste like sausage," Peeta gets out between his laughs. "Your technique leaves something to be desired." At this moment I push away from the table to bolt, but Peeta holds me tight. "Seriously. What do you want to do today?" My head hangs limply in my hand. I can't think of anything to say except that I really like staying in his arms, where he keeps the nightmares away. In fact, it should be strange that I want to stay in his arms; until yesterday, we hadn't made any physical contact since the rebellion. And now I wanted to suck his face off at the kitchen table. For shame.

"I want to contribute," I answer slowly. He takes a sip of his coffee—his arms are so long that they can reach across the table—and rubs my back at the same time. "I don't want to hunt," I add weakly, for good measure. _Stop this right now, Katniss Everdeen_, I scold myself. _Don't let him in and make you vulnerable_. _But what if I kind of like it? _I push those thoughts from my mind.

A smile flickers briefly cross Peeta's face as he furrows his brow and loosens his grip around my back, then pressing his forehead to mine. "You're more than a hunter, Katniss Everdeen. You know more about the forest and its secrets than anyone."

_Not more than my father._ I swallow, hard. Peeta might never understand my connection and relationship to the forest. He's such a city-slicker. His eyes are staring into my own so earnestly—he's searching for an answer. _He's searching for a sign that I am alive, that I'm alive and kicking_.

_And nothing comforts me the same_

_As my brave friend who says:_

"I'll find something," I finally sigh, "Flowers, and shit." He nods, and pulls his plate over to our side of the table, never letting go of my hand. We do the dishes in silence. I finally have the courage to tell him that his biscuits are better than anything we had in the Capitol.

"Thanks," he says, "good to hear." In this moment, I don't want Peeta to leave. He always goes into town in the morning. Then he comes home and bakes, or he paints. I have not seen his new works of art, but I can see him working on them from my windows. Today, I just want to stay with him. I have no desire to go into the woods and find myself—or this evening's dinner—and I just want to stay by his side. Like a sick puppy. Or a seagull and its rock. He pulls me closer to him. He smells like breakfast. "I'll be here when you get back," he nuzzles into my neck. To think, just a short time ago we regarded one another as—what are those things that Haymitch rambles on about?—oh yeah, _lepers_. And now we're molesting each other in the kitchen.

_"I don't care if forever never comes_

_'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling."_

I nod, hard. "I know. I just don't want to be alone." His sad eyes understand me. He nods, touching his eyelashes to mine. I don't want to be alone in the forest, surrounded by my past and loved ones lost and terrible deeds that I've done, consoled only by my own empty words.

"It's only a few hours," he sighs. "Let's call it an early day, come home, and relax." I start to dry heave into his shoulder. _I'm an attractive one_, I think.

"This is what healing feels like," he adds quietly, breathing into my hair. "It won't be so bad. You know where to find me." I nod. Peeta is obvious. He'll be in town, laughing it up with his friends, I can hear him from a mile away. That's how amazing his laugh is.

_All the loves we had, all we ever knew-_

_Did they fill me with so many secrets_

_That keep me from loving you?_

_'Cause it's hard..._


	5. Chapter 5: She's Only Happy in the Sun

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _She's Only Happy in the Sun_ is by Ben Harper (found on _Diamonds on the Inside_. I just love him.).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss spends some time in the woods and finds a new way to spend her hours while bringing justice to Peeta.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: Do you guys want more frequent updates? I have the first thirty (!) chapters written, and if once every three days isn't getting the job done, let me know! Smut happens in Chapter 8 and it's pretty much a lemon-fest after that (well, sex and ugly sobbing). TELL PIPPI!**

Well, Katniss finally finds her calling! Lots of action and sexual frustration in this one—let me know what you think! (Like Gale said, Katniss only smiles in the woods, so I tried to find a new place for her in the forest.) Thanks so much for your constructive criticisms and reviews—more Peeta and Katniss to come!

Chapter 5: _She's Only Happy in the Sun_

_I know you may not want to see me _

_On your way down from the clouds._

I'm lying on my stomach on a warm rock by the lake, watching the fish swim beneath me. I can feel my skin starting to heat and peel from sun low in the spring sky, and I rather like it, because it reminds me that I'm alive. It reminds me of my father. "The girl with the golden skin," he'd call me in the summer. I would get so dark, my mother would douse me in herbs and aloe, and cool milk, and I'd only get more golden. My father loved it; my skin was like his skin. Now Prim, she couldn't go out in the sun without a cover, or her skin would become beet red for days on end, and she'd wail into my mother's lap as the cool milk sucked the sun out. I can't think about that right now. I want to catch some fish for dinner—I don't feel as bad about fishing. Or at least I thought that I didn't. Every time I tried to catch a fish, I cock-blocked myself and scared the fish away, its silver and gold scales swimming away from me as fast as their little fins could carry them. _LET ME CONTRIBUTE, ASSHOLES. _YOU CAN'T YELL AT FISH, I remind myself.

Into the woods I go. As I slither along, like a snake on its belly, I remind myself of the name of every leaf from every tree, and try to remember its use. I know a stream, deep and cool, with fish literally sitting in a barrel. It pains me to think of them, stripping them of their lives, and then I think of their sweet flesh on a wooden stick, and I become determined. Yum. Om nom nom. Peeta will be so pleased. I can feel splinters and leaves digging into my bare feet, but I have no desire to stop or pluck out the wood. The little daggers help me feel. I feel alive in these trees. When I arrive at the stream, I see the fish literally swimming toward me, and my heart sinks. I can't kill them in the warm spring sun, when we're all so warm and our bellies are so full. I want to kick myself in the head.

_Would you hear me if I told you _

_That my heart is with you now?_

I wade into the water, stripping myself of all of my clothes, ducking under the water quickly. Despite how hot it gets here, the water never warms up. Such a buzzkill. Under the water, I scream aloud, almost sucking water into my lungs in a desperate sub-conscious effort to end it all. Some of the fish look at me, giving me the side-eye. _This chick is a nut_. Feels good to scream. And no one can hear my weakness, bwah ha ha. I'm the worst covert hunter ever, I think. I keep telling them where I am and what I'm thinking and why I'm so sad.I come up for air, and then I wade over closer to the shore. I start digging into the cool, slippery mud. The water clouds, and I lose sight of my goal. I grasp it before it grasps me—a little crawfish. I drop it in my bucket. I can probably eat two dozen, Peeta maybe three. I have a lot of work to do.

The work itself is easy—digging in the mud for little crawdads. But they can be fast, and their claws can snip your little fingers. After catching four dozen, my fingers are raw and my back aches from bending over and my back is sunburned. But I feel alive. Naked. But alive. And I caught dinner without killing anything. Such a kind thought. The crawfish don't look too psyched, but I can't think about that now. My crawfish are so simple and happy and crawling over one another to catch the last rays of the day's sun. And then I hear it. The very faint humming far above my head. I don't want to look up. I can't fucking handle it right now. It's a tracker jacker nest.

_She's only happy in the sun; _

_She's only happy in the sun._

But I have to deal with them. I don't make any sudden movements. I just allow my gaze to drift up. These tracker jackers have become lazy in the forest, bathed in the spring sun. I am angry at them—they have taken so much away from Peeta, and now they seek to take away this beautiful day. Why did the Capitol create them, anyway? Why distort nature beyond the point of no return? Is it about control? About manipulation? Retribution? Power? All of the above? I realize that I need to breathe. The tracker jackers have not taken notice of me—I guess that I still "blend" in the forest. Comforting. Some things never change, I suppose.

But that nest still remains. As I peer up, shrouded by the running waters, I see that the nest is clinging to a very old, weakened branch. Tracker jackers are so inbred that they've lost common sense, I surmise. I move out of the water silently, creeping onto the stream's bank. They haven't noticed me yet. I reach for my bow and arrow. I brought them out of habit, mostly. Like a safety blanket that can pierce someone's skin and kill them at a moment's notice. _That's healthy_, I think. What did my dad say about tracker jackers again? I need to remember. I sit down, bow and arrow between my legs, thinking about Peeta, and I try to remember my father. Tracker jackers—as rule—dislike the cold. And they dislike water. They can't swim. And their nests are so hollow that they fill with water very quickly and sink. They hate rain, because they can't do anything about it. They loathe smoke. And just like that, I have an idea. I can't see any tracker jackers buzzing around the nest—they must be within.

_Did you find what you were after? _

_The pain and the laughter _

_Brought you to your knees._

I hide behind an old musty fallen tree. I see the mushrooms, and think they'd go great with the crawfish. _One thing at a time, Katniss_, I remind myself_. You aren't starving anymore, per say. Easy does it. Whoa nelly_. _FOCUS_. I nestle myself around the log, and I take aim at the old decrepit branch holding the next to the tree. I take aim with my bow and arrow, barely drawing breath. I let the string go, and from a safe distance I watch the branch twist from the tree, and I watch the nest fall into the water. The tracker jackers are so brainless, they don't even have time to register what's happening before their nest has been submerged in water, and starts sinking. I imagine each little cell-hive filling with waters, its inhabitant drowning a terrible death. The humming-buzzing becomes too loud to ignore, and I can hear their collective panic as they succumb to their chilly deaths. The nest is swept away by a current, and floats downstream.

_But if the sun sets you free—_

_Sets you free -_

_You'll be free indeed, indeed._

This afternoon, I think, I accomplished something. Anything. Those tracker jackers are the bane of Peeta's existence, as far as I am concerned. The more of them I can take out, the better. The Capitol's grand experiment can kiss my ass. They've been taking over our forests and making our lives a living hell. You can't go but ten yards in the forests of Districts Twelve and Thirteen without hearing their fatal, familiar hum. They might not kill you, but they can certainly make your life a living, barely-breathing hell. I for one have had it. The last straw was highjacking Peeta. And I'll never forget plucking the tracker jacker stingers out of his skin in the arena, sucking out the poison, then chewing the leaves, and pasting them on like a sloppy child in art class. I destroyed a nest of tracker jackers. _I accomplished something today_, I think as I gather clumps of mushrooms without rhyme or reasons. Without drawing attention to myself, I dash out of the forest, into the meadow.

_She's only happy in the sun; _

_She's only happy in the sun_

I fall hard to the ground, clutching my bags of crawfish and mushrooms. _Must. Save. Dinner._ I feel myself drifting into sleep, but then I just realize that I knocked my head on a large rock. _Grace and beauty_, I say to myself as I try to shake it off. I'm lying on the ground, and I look to my right. I see a patch of late blooming dandelions. They are so tall and so strong and so yellow, taking on the color of the sun. And then I hear the humming. I try to scoot away, expecting to see more tracker jackers. But then I see a bee—a simple, harmless honeybee. They are more afraid of you than you are of them, and they won't attack you unless you attack their queen. This little bee was lazy, hovering above the same flower for a few minutes. Maybe he too was relishing the rays of spring sunshine beneath an endless blue sky and white clouds. I haven't seen a plain honeybee since before the Games.

As of late, when hunting, I see more tracker jackers than natural insects. My dad always taught me that insects are good, and that we need them. We need bugs to spread and disperse pollen. Without bees, we wouldn't have spring flowers, or honey. He taught me to respect them, to keep my distance, not to provoke them. To let them do their jobs. These bees are pollinating the dandelions. No bees, no dandelions in the spring. From the pit of my stomach, I wanted to help them. Fight the tracker jackers back. Without the help of the Capitol, I can see that they are out of control, and endangering local native populations. They will soon overtake the populations of local honeybees. No bees, no flowers, no honey. This is particularly poetic to me when I think of what the tracker jackers took from Peeta. If I can eliminate the tracker jackers, and save the bees, I can help Peeta. I can save the flowers. I could help repair District 12. I resolved myself in that moment to do away with as many of the damned tracker jackers as I can. I pull myself up from the sweet grass and salute the little hard-working bee as I scuttle home.

_Every time I hear you laughing—_

_I hear you laughing-_

_It makes me cry._

Sae is pleased with the crawfish and mushrooms; the stew tonight is earthy and warm and delicious. Peeta wants to know my secrets, how I talk to nature to find what we need. _Elbow grease_, I tell him. I can't tell him about the tracker jackers just yet. He sits next to me at dinner. His hands brush my thigh. I'm sucking the flesh and brains out of the little crawdads, and Peeta still wants to touch me. Peeta says he is proud of my contributions. We clean up after dinner. I eat some of his cookies. We start to work on the book. But tonight, I tell him I want to work on the plants. I want to write about the dandelions and the bees.

"You're a strange one, Katniss," Peeta jokes as he sketches the flower. "But if this makes you happy, I'm glad to do it." We sketch the flowers and the bees until the sun's morning rays pour into the room through the windows. I'm contributing again.

_Like the story of life—_

_Of your life-_

_Is hello, goodbye._

_She's only happy in the sun;_

_She's only happy in the sun._


	6. Chapter 6: How to See the Sun Rise

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _How to See the Sun Rise _belongs to Ben Sollee.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss and Peeta fall into a new routine, but new routines bring new challenges and consequences.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: You'll now get updates every other day! (Until Pippi starts her new job. Let's hope she is done by then!) **

As promised, here is some Katniss and Peeta fluff. Like all teenagers, they're struggling with raging hormones. Thanks for the reviews and suggestions—I'm trying to make our ship set sail—just not too quickly. Patience is a virtue that Katniss and I both seem to lack, but we're working on it. Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy!

Chapter 6: _How to See the Sun Rise_

_Well, teach me baby, _

_Oh Lord, yes—_

_A little show-and-tell,_

Peeta and I have a new routine this spring. Greasy Sae only comes in the evenings now to help us with dinner. Peeta is a champ with breakfast. Every morning, it's something new and delicious and hot and fresh, kneaded by his own strong hands. Oh, the things those hands could do. Biscuits and breads and scones and sweet pastries and danishes and sometimes oatmeal. He's the brains behind the operation. The brawn, too. He bakes for our little "family" and the townspeople. Peeta takes most of the breads into the district each morning as he leaves for work, giving them to his coworkers and returning families. Thom calls him the Welcome Wagon. I do what I can—I bring in fresh fruits and vegetables from the forest and meadow, fish from the lake and streams. We try to provide as much for ourselves as we can. It keeps us busy.

After Sae and Haymitch leave after dinner, Peeta and I do the dishes and then settle down to work on our books. The Plant book is filling out nicely, and I've been able to find samples of almost everything in the book this spring. The pages smell like the mountains—_my father's mountains_. The Tribute book has proved much more difficult. Peeta and I are guaranteed to have one breakdown every time that we work on it. Sometimes, it's just too difficult to find the words, let alone put them to paper. Sometimes, Peeta struggles to finish a painting, but he squeezes his eyes shut tight, takes in a deep breath, and steels himself to finish. When the other has an episode, we wrap our arms around each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings (sometimes we play Real, Not Real), rubbing their back, waiting for the moment to pass. Thus far, neither of us have completely freaked out in front of one another since my charming little nightmare incident. Sometimes, we fall asleep next to each other, buried under a wool blanket, his heavy arms draped across my bony shoulder and wrapped around my waist. My hands always find their way to his chest to find his beating heart. Our chests rise and fall together. We usually wake up a couple of hours later, say our parting words, and split. It's awkward. Sometimes I wake up alone. It's devastating.

Don't get me wrong—the nightmares aren't stopping. Peeta and I tried talking about them at breakfast in the morning, but it was too painful for both us of. I've lost the ability to properly enunciate words when I talk about my nightmares. I just end up sobbing and crying and wailing like I've lost my tongue. I know how much that hurts Peeta, because it reminds him of how Darius and Lavinia were tortured to death in front of him. Peeta becomes catatonic when he talks about them, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around himself and he can't stop shaking. And then I panic because that's how I found him in the Tunnels of the Capitol, and I can't bear to almost lose him again. He always comes back to me, and I always find my voice, but it's just killing us.

_How to keep from loving you,_

_Now should I fence in my heart, baby?_

_Lord, keep it in the shade._

The best thing about this spring is that I can finally hug Peeta again. And more often than not, Peeta initiates the hug. He always craved physical contact and affection, just like my father. But I am my mother's child, and I am not so great at feeling feelings. I still have the urge to push away the ones I love so that I can't get attached when they leave. But Peeta—and his strong arms—are very persistent and always manage to find me. And once I'm trapped, I don't want to leave. I start letting him get away with it. It seems to make him happy. _I don't want to admit to myself that it makes me happy_.

Peeta's hugs make me feel a lot of things. His arms are bigger, stronger—from the Games, from hauling bags of flour and sugar and gallons of milk, from chopping down trees and building things, from holding me. These aren't the arms of a boy—these are the arms of a man. But it still feels like the old Peeta, strong and steady and warm and comforting. Mostly, they make me feel safe, like I belong, like nothing can hurt me. But new Peeta is kind of tingly in the best way possible. Like our skin is on fire. Sometimes I can't get enough of him and try to press every inch of our scarred hides together. Haymitch jokes that some day we're going to get stuck like that. _I don't think that's such a bad idea_.

_Give it all the fruit it could want—_

_Except yours._

We haven't kissed yet. We've come close. Really close. Like when we're working on the book. Or I've had a terrible nightmare. Or if he's having a shitty seizure. But we usually graze lips when we're doing ordinary things, like putting the dishes away, or watching the sunset on the porch. His lips are so warm and soft on my skin, and I could just stay that way forever. It never does. BUT. He always kisses my forehead before we go to bed and go our separate ways. I always hate that part—when one of us leaves to go home to their empty house in Victors' Village. We both face the demons that haunt our nightmares alone in the dark. I've taken to sleeping with the light on, hell if I care that I'm wasting electricity. I've noticed that Peeta's lights are on, too. I don't know why we don't just suck it up and have sleepovers like we used to, on the Tour, on the beach, in the cave… I figure that I'm stubborn and he is afraid, but that's not making anything any better. Now that he denies me his kisses, it makes me want them even more. But what I want above all else right now is a goddamn night of sleep.

_Teach me baby—_

_Well, one more time, _

_Just exactly how far you are away._

When I awake in a pool of sunlight, it's disconcerting. I got my night of sleep. Peeta is asleep next to me on the floor. I don't move, because his face is pressed against my hair on my neck, and each puff of warm breath makes me bite my tongue. He's also drooling and snoring. In this sunlight, he looks angelic, and then my eyes travel down his arms, still wrapped about me. I can see all of the scars criss-crossing his skin, like a well-worn map. Some scars are still bright pink and raised, others are white and barely noticeable. Except Peeta's real skin is marked by freckles, and his new skin is still creamy.

I can't help but notice how nicely my olive skin stands out against his in this light. Unconsciously, my fingers start traveling the scars on his arm, tracing my own, always coming back to him. He rustles against me, but doesn't wake up. I keep exploring him. He's no angel—he's a man, a man with a story—our story. Every scar, every pock mark—it's our story. We survived. I think his map is quite lovely. I love the downy soft blond hair growing on his arm. Peeta shifts in his sleep, and by chance or by fate or by choice, he squeezes my hip. He pulls me closer to him.

_Should I start walking now, baby?_

_When in the day,_

_You know I don't need no map— _

_Yes, I'll find my way._

I look around us, and see that our pens and pencils are still by our side, and the Plant book sits a few feet away. Last night we were working on the crab apple tree, whose flowers are so beautiful in the spring and whose fruit curses us with its foul smell in the summer. I reckon that we'd just fallen asleep after we finished, both of us too exhausted to move. I thought back, back to my sleep. But nothing stood out about this sleep. If I had dreams or nightmares, I certainly don't remember them. I hadn't slept this well since the Tour and the train winding its way to the Capitol. Such a strange feeling, to be so at peace upon waking up. Is this how other people feel in the morning? Fuckers. I'm jealous. What I wouldn't give for night after night of blissful, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep… with Peeta at my side, pressing into my hip. The only times I had been able to sleep since the Hunger Games were the times when I was with Peeta, pressed against him in the sleeping bag or in the little train-sized bed or buried in the sand. It occurred to me that I hadn't had real, not-morphling-induced sleep since the Quarter Quell. And then the word vomit came back up.

Peeta had cracked his eyes open and he was staring at me. He hadn't moved, and my hands were still stroking his. He was still pressed into my hip. We stay like this for a few minutes. I'm afraid to move because I don't want to lose this closeness. And he's watching me.

_Teach me, baby—_

_Oh, I promise I'll get it this time, _

_How to hold a bird in my hand and watch it grow—_

"Ummm. How long have you been awake?" I say quietly, turning my lips toward his shoulder in a half-assed attempt to hide the blush sweeping across my cheeks.

"Long enough to see you checking me out," Peeta replies cheekily. Now I try to break away from him, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he holds me to him.

"I like your scars!" I choke out, and he looks taken aback. "I like them because they tell a story—OUR STORY—and no one understands it except the two of us!"

Peeta swallows, hard. Now I've gone and done it. I've stepped over the line and I've triggered something and today is going to be a shitty day, just because I can't fucking keep my hands to myself. He's going to have an episode, and he won't even let me go.

A smile appears on his face. "It's hard to tell the new scars from the old scars, sometimes. I was a clumsy kid," he finally says. He looks into my eyes and brushes my hair from my cheek. "I'll need your scars to figure out my scars." That's nice. He's so fucking nice. Here I am, worried that he's going to kill me, and he's just being Peeta the Poet.

Now it's my turn to grin. "Well, some of my scars are because I'm reckless," I say carelessly, playing with his hands and fingers and knuckles. I have a burning question to ask him. Well, a few burning questions for him. I gird my loins. "How'd you sleep last night?"

Now he rubs his bleary eyes. He's letting go of me. "Okay, I guess," and Peeta's arm falls back across me.

"No nightmares? No terrors? No… bad dreams?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Nothing. Dreamless." He pauses for a moment, looking at the clock. "Why? Did you? I thought you slept pretty soundly. I was expecting a sucker punch to the groin at some point, but you continue to surprise me, Katniss." And then he plants a hot wet kiss on my forehead. I would sell my soul at this point to be close enough to his groin to punch him. Now it's my turn to be excited. I pull myself into his lap, straddling him. If Haymitch walked in at this very moment, he'd certainly have something to talk about. I cup Peeta's face in my hands, and pull him towards my own.

_See those feathers bloom—_

_But don't let it fly,_

_Even though that's what it's supposed to do._

"Do you know what this means?" I practically shout. Peeta's eyes give me this quizzical look.

"It means we'll have lots of energy today?" he says sarcastically.

"NO!" And I pull him even closer to my lips. I want him so badly. _Why is he being so dense?_ "IT MEANS THAT WHEN WE SLEEP TOGETHER WE DON'T HAVE NIGHTMARES. SO I THINK WE SHOULD JUST KEEP SLEEPING TOGETHER."

Now he's smirking at me and I can't wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. "Yes, that, too," he chuckles, "I just wanted to hear _you_ say it." I want to slap him, but I just let go of his face and give him my best glower. "What? It's not rocket science, Katniss." I'm embarrassed. I hate talking about my feelings, about my insecurities and my fears and my needs. The more he knows about me, the more he understands about me, the more vulnerable I am. Peeta's still squeezing my hip, a little too close for comfort. There are so many things I want to tell him—about the train, about the cave, about the beach, about the tunnels, about the way I want to touch myself when I think about him. The way that only the two of us will ever understand what we've been through and how we really do need each other to survive. But I just collapse onto his shoulders, into his lap.

_Teach me, baby—_

_Mmm, one last time,_

_How to see the sun rise _

_In the dead of night._

"Why weren't we doing this before?" I squeak. His beautiful face falls.

"I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid I'll have an episode in my sleep and that I'll hurt you. And I won't stop myself in time." A tear slides out of his eye, and I lean forward to kiss it away. He sniffles, and buries his hand in my hair behind my neck. "But I haven't had an episode in my sleep in awhile. Not since I planted the primroses. I think we're safe now."

Now I feel stupid. "I thought it was because you stopped liking me. Stopped… needing me. Stopped… wanting me," I sniffle. _Just. Stop. Talking. Katniss_. Now it was Peeta's turn to hold me ever closer.

"I could NEVER stop loving you or needing you or wanting you!" His tears are hot and fast and wet upon my neck. "I never want to hurt you. And… and… I don't want you to see my… weak—weakness."

My heart hurts; he said "loving," I said "liking." Does he still love me, the way I love him? I wind my hands around his neck, his shoulders, his back. I have to tell him; he needs to hear it from my own lips, of my own will. "I love you," I will myself to say.

"Real."

"You love me."

"Real."

"We protect each other."

"Real."

"We take care of each other."

"Real."

_Oh, 'cause that's how it feels, baby, _

_'Cause you don't feel that way, too?_

Peeta presses his lips to mine, and I press back, but I open up just a little, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. His hands and arms relax, but I don't want to let go. _More, I want more_, as his tongue flicks my bottom lip. So we just sit there, wrapped up in our own little world on the floor for who knows how long. The rest of the world is awake now, but I don't think we'll be joining them today.

"How's my favorite sweet—HEY, LOVEBIRDS!" Haymitch barges though the door, already drunk, holding a pitcher of what could only be orange juice and champagne. Breakfast of champions. Peeta and I don't even have time to disentangle ourselves from one another. I'm so red, I feel like I'm LITERALLY on fire, and Peeta may or may not be breaking out in hives. This is the Victor equivalent of your parents barging in on you and your significant other trying to have sex for the first time, and you're begging him to put it in, and then your mom is there. I want to die.

We scramble to stand up, still holding hands. Haymitch is singing a truly inappropriate song about the birds and the bees as we try to clean up the book and the supplies, all while maintaining a veneer of composure. I follow Peeta into the kitchen.

"If only Portia and Cinna and Effie could see us now," Peeta laughs as he wraps me into a big hug.

"_First comes LOVE then comes MARRIAGE then comes the BABY with the BABY CARRIAGE!_" Haymitch bellows belligerently from the living room. "BUT YOU YUTZES HAVE DONE IT ALL OUT OF ORDER, HAVEN'T YOUUU?"

"Alright, Haymitch, let's get some eggs and toast in you!" Peeta bellows back.

It's going to be a long day yet. I suspect that I'm on Haymitch duty. But in the corniest way possible, I'm okay with this knowing that I get to sleep next to Peeta Mellark tonight. Vom.

_Oh, 'cause that's how it feels, baby, _

_'Cause you don't feel that way, too?_


	7. Chapter 7: Your Rocky Spine

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Your Rocky Spine _s by the Great Lake Swimmers. (Yes, much of my playlist is alt-country and bluegrass, just check these guys out!)

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina** (if you aren't reading _A Thousand Kisses Deep, _you should be)**!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss runs into the trouble in the words with some tracker jackers, but has Peeta healed enough to help her? (Haymitch puts in his two cents.)

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Thank you, thank you, thank you for your reviews! I hope that this chapter delivers on the action and sexual frustration. I've always thought since reading _Mockingjay_ that it's really important that Peeta learn how to cope with the tracker jackers in the real world. It's tough for him, but he's a tough guy, so he's up for the challenge. For what it's worth, I definitely relate more to Katniss, so writing angry Peeta is a huge obstacle for me; I hope I got inside his head enough for everyone. (I'm also not sure he's angry all the time, you know?)

Chapter 7: _Your Rocky Spine_

_I was lost in the lakes_

_And the shape that your body makes,_

_That your body makes._

_It never gets any fucking easier, does it, sweetheart?_ I hiss at myself in the forest, hiding in a great old oak. _Just another thing I'm shitty at doing_. My father had always prided himself on his ability to just feel the forest out, to hear what it needed amongst the trees. I learned everything I knew from him. And then my ear got blown off in the Hunger Games, and the forest is overwhelming my senses. I can't make sense of the sounds and smells and sights around me. _Worst hunter EVER. _All of the leaves intermingling with the flowers, and the various birds singing to one another, the animals quietly going about the business. It's overpowering. My senses are confused. It's maddening that I can't focus anymore.

I leave the tree. I'd been sitting in it for three hours now, accomplishing jack shit. _Getting a tan—_that would only be an achievement in the Capitol_. _I take to the higher ground and start up the mountain. I'd exhausted my prey in that part of the forest. Destroying the tracker jacker nests gave me a very real sense of purpose and value and being. The girl who was once one with the forest was trying very hard to give back.

After my good aim brought down one tracker jacker hive earlier this spring, I decided that I'm going to bring all of them down. Mostly for Peeta. Then for District Twelve. Then for the honeybees. It also just feels good to fuck shit up. Completely normal, Dr. Aurelius assures me. Keep on fucking shit up, Mockingjay. Get it all out. _RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE AND WHATEVER. _I'm not really "raging against the machine" but I am actively trying to bring down what the Capitol has wrought upon my fair District. (Okay, "fair" is the wrong word—"blighted" is way better.) I want to destroy the tracker jackers because they tried to rob Peeta of his essence and being— his love for me- and they nearly succeeded. We fight it every single fucking day. They almost took all of his goodness and turned it against me. Motherfuckers. Okay, so maybe there is a lot of rage in me, after all. Touché.

_And the mountains said I could find you here—_

_They whisper the snow and the leaves in my ear._

And to be fair, the tracker jackers were making it really hard to rebuild this summer. In the time between bombing District Twelve into oblivion and now mid-summer, the wild things in the forests had run amok, and now it was almost impossible to rein them back in. And we don't have fancy exterminators out here in the boonies. In particular, the Capitol-engineered mutants like the tracker jackers were particularly hard to control and destroy. Not only were they vicious little bastards, but it was almost impossible to know where their nests would be. The men and women trying to rebuild the town center found that out the hard way; they'd bring down a tree, only to be attacked by tracker jackers. Sometimes they'd find hives within the trees, and then they'd be royally screwed. Luckily, Peeta had not been stung yet, but I suspect that he avoided chopping down the trees because he was afraid to get stung. The tracker jackers were more than a pestilence—they were a constant reminder that the Capitol had altered our reality and our natural world. We need to eradicate them and take back our district for ourselves, scientific progress be damned.

Dr. Aurelius kindly reminded me, when I'd go into a blind rage in one of our charming phone conversations, that my thought process was normal. "Some people believe that destruction must be complete before anything new may be created," he surmised. "Destruction before creation."

"FUCK THAT SHIT. EVERYTHING ASSOCIATED WITH THE CAPITOL HAS TO GO, THEN WE CAN START ALL OVER AGAIN," I would yell hysterically.

"Mmm hmm. How does the destruction make you feel good?"

"GOOD."

"Do you feel like you are accomplishing something?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you feel like you're healing?"

"I guess."

"Until next week, keep up the good work, Katniss," and then Dr. Aurelius would be gone.

There was something else I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him about the honeybees, how they were starting to come back. I wanted to tell him about the bees and the honey and the flowers, and how I felt like I was saving Peeta because by saving the bees, they could keep pollinating the flowers and making the honey, and Peeta was the sweet dandelion in my life! But I was afraid that if I told him everything—just like that—then he'd tell me that I needed to work on my grammar and avoid run-on sentences. Dr. Aurelius really wants no part of our relationship drama. I guess he figures that it'll work out on its own; either that, or one of us will kill the other, and then it won't be an issue at all.

_I traced my finger along your trails—_

_Your body was the map,_

_I was lost in there._

I've reached a small clearing on the mountain, and see a large grey rock shaded by a great pine, and it looks like a good place to stop and think. I sit and start playing with the acorns on the ground. Summer is here, and soon fall, I think to myself, and I should really leave them for the chipmunks and squirrels who will need to gather them for hibernation. Sometimes Peeta stuff too much food in his mouth and he looks like a chipmunk. Heh. As if by fate, a little honeybee comes and starts to buzz around my rock. Soon it's joined by another, and then another. It's like the whole nest is coming to greet me for returning their home to them.

For every tracker jacker nest I bring down, a beehive takes its place. For so many years during the Capitol, the tracker jackers had been forcing the bees out of their home. Their numbers began to dwindle. They became easy prey for the tracker jackers. As the number of bees dropped, so did the number of flowers and trees and every other living thing in the woods. They terrorized the wild life. A few summers ago, dead wolves were found nearly every week, dead from tracker jacker venom. Nothing about this situation was natural. The Capitol was trying to force our hand again, and I was going to take that control back. Well, take it back and give it to nature. I'm a benevolent despot. I was taking the power away from the tracker jackers—the Capitol—and back to the bees, the bees who would nourish the sweet dandelions and primroses that adorn our fields and yards. It's like I was taking back Peeta and Prim from the Capitol and planting them in the fresh mountain earth.

And now I've lost another hour on that rock, swimming in my thoughts. I sit and I think and I watch, and then I just sit there watching, like a pillowcase full of doorknobs. It's a whole lot of sitting. I came up here to destroy more tracker jacker hives, and I've spent half of the day dreaming about Peeta's hair and how soft it is and how it tickles my neck when he kisses me. I start to sigh with defeat, and then I see it—high in the branches of the very pine tree I'm under is a shiny tracker jacker hive. It glints in the sunshine. _How am I going to bring this bastard down?_ I wonder.

_Floating over your rocky spine—_

_The glaciers made you and now you're mine._

Sometimes, it's easy—I can shoot it down using my bow and arrow if the hive looks quiet, stuff it in a burlap sack, and then chuck it in the nearest body of water. They drown so very easily.

Usually, it's harder than that. On damp days, I will try to light a wet smoky fire under the hive, so that they smoke makes them simultaneously groggy and angry—so that they can't react quickly—then I'll cut it down or shoot it down. Then I stuff it in the burlap sack and drown it. Sometimes I shriek like a banshee and swing it around like a shot putter and launch it into the lake. I like lighting fires—I like the destruction and I know it's a terrible way to die- but I always worry about putting them out thoroughly. _Only you can prevent forest fires!_ My dad told me.

Most of the time though, I find a way to climb up the nearest tree (or the same tree, as it so happens), lean in close enough to see the whites of their eyes, and shove the whole nest into a sack, then tie the sack shut and saw the damn branch off. Even though it's the beginning of summer and pregnant words hang in the hot, humid air, I go out wearing long sleeves and pants and boots and my father's old mining gloves, because I don't want to get strung. And that's exactly what I do today—I find myself climbing up the ancient pine. There is no movement within or around the nest, so I think I'm safe. As quietly and swiftly as I can, I pull the burlap over the hive, tie it shut, and start to saw. And then I see it—movement within the sack. They're awake. Fuck. I don't have much time now. Luckily, the top of the tree is weak, and with a final grunt, I push the sack and its hive back, watching it plummet to the rock below. Even from ten yards above the ground, I can see their shiny little bodies struggling beneath the burlap to get out and break free and wreak havoc on whatever just rocked their world.

_I was moving across your frozen veneer,_

_The sky was dark,_

_But you were clear._

I slip down the tree, and find a long pointy branch on the ground. _Necessity is indeed the mother of invention_, I think grimly. As I approach the burlap hive, the tracker jackers go wild. They can fucking smell me, smell my hot flesh. Silently, I slip my pack back on. I hook the pointy end of the stick through the knot at the top of the sack, and start to drag. This hive must be particularly full of tracker jackers, because it weighs a ton, and they're going berserk. I can't run into the forest, for fear of the sack bursting. I grit my teeth and drag it as delicately as I can across the sharp leaves and thistles and acorns and rocks, and I hope there are some snakes down there for good measure, too. And then it happens. I can hear it before the tracker jacker sinks its stinger into my knee. I can't cry out, because then the others will attack me too. It stings me, it blinds me; I am white with rage and pain. I have to follow through.

When I come to a quick mountain creek, I heave the sack into it as quickly as possible, and I don't even let myself have the satisfaction of watching it get swept down the rapids, listening to their frantic screams as they drown in their sodden hive. I sit on the bank of the creek, and pull up my pant leg to see the damage. Now I can start wailing. I fumble for a pair of tweezers in my pack, and fumble for the herbs before realizing that the string is on the BACK of my knee. I won't be able to suck the poison out, and I can't see what I'm doing because I don't have eyes on the back of my head. Mother. Fuckers. I dig around in the back of my knee for a good five minutes before I can pull out the stinger. I then slice open the blister and immerse my leg in the creek, trying to flush out all the toxins. My head is swimming. Everything has taken on a distinctly shiny, tinny quality. The pain is subsiding—well, at least it's not getting any worse. I do my best to apply the herbal ointment, and wrap my knee in a fresh bandage. Peeta's going to love this one.

_Could you feel my footsteps?_

_And would you shatter, would you shatter?_

_Would you?_

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" he demands as I limped in his back door. I shrug limply. Peeta knows the answer. Before I know it, I'm sitting on the counter and he's taken my pants off and he's crouched underneath me, examining the back of my knee. It's so strange to see his face between my legs.

"It's the tenth nest I've taken down," I answer weakly. He stares up at me from between my knees. Awkward.

"So THAT"S what you've been doing all day this summer?" he says incredulously.

"Hey! I bring home herbs and fruits and vegetables!" I retort. "I KNOW I'M NOT BRINGING HOME THE BACON, BUT THE NESTS NEED TO BE DESTROYED, PEETA."

"I KNOW THAT, KATNISS. BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE. THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT I HAVE TO LIKE IT. THEY TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME. I WON'T LET THAT HAPPEN TO YOU."

"WHAT ARE WE YELLING ABOUT?" My face is now as a red as my poor knee. I really want Peeta out from my between my legs. _Or do I. I don't know._ My face hurts. Peeta looks like he feels bad.

"Do you need me to suck the poison out?" He repositions himself beneath my legs.

"No!" I shout. He looks offended. "I think I got it all out in the creek." I notice that Peeta's not looking at my incredibly sexy knees anymore.

_Your soft fingers between my claws—_

_Like purity against resolve._

"Katniss, promise me that you aren't doing anything stupid. Anything that will get you in trouble. Anything that…," he gulps, "will take you away from me. I can't survive without you." I shake my head fiercely. "Katniss, I know better than anyone what those bastards can do to you. Real. How they were used against me. And I couldn't live with myself if I let that happen to you." I nod. His hands are resting on my thighs. He sighs between my legs and buries his face in my lap, in my underwear. I want to die. "So please, please, please, just be careful?" I nod.

"I'm doing it for you. I'm doing it so that we can rebuild our district. I'm doing it for… the bees…," I say, but my tongue is thick and my words are blurry. The toxin is making me faint, but the word vomit keeps coming. "They took everything away from you—"

"Not everything," Peeta murmurs. It's almost as if he is trying to breathe in my scent and taste me, as I can feel his hot breath through the fabric on my damp curls.

"They tried to take everything from you, and all I want to do is give you part of your freedom back. And punish them." I'm not sure my words make sense, but I put them all out there. Now I'm woozy. He head swims between my legs. I feel his jaw nod against my hip bone. Where are my pants?

_I could tell then there that we were formed from the clay_

_And came from the rocks for earth to display._

The last thing I remember is a loud banging and clatter and glass breaking. "YOU TWO NEED TO GET A ROOM," Haymitch slurs as he falls through the door, "OR A 'DO NOT DISTURB' SIGN. YOU'RE ALWAYS PLAYING BETWEEN EACH OTHER'S LEGS. WHAT IS IT? 'HIDE AND GO PEEK'? HEH. 'DOCTOR?'"

I feel Peeta scoop me up in his arms and take me upstairs to his bed. I feel him tuck me in, and my consciousness gives out. Later that night, I can feel him change the ointment and bandage. He kisses my forehead before pulling me to him once more, and I think he says "always" but that could be the toxin talking. Oh! And I think I'm wearing pants again, because when I wake up in the morning, his body is pressed against mine and his hand is stuck in my drawstring. _He stayed with me_, I think wondrously. I'm deliriously happy. When he wakes up, he makes me breakfast in bed and even brings me the newspaper. Peeta says he's sorry for yelling, and that he's going to work from home today so he can watch me sleep it off on the couch. He gives me the sweetest, gentlest warmest, open-mouthed kiss he's ever given me, and I'm still starving for his affections. The boy with the bread is a saint.

_They told me to be careful up there,_

_Where the wind rages through your hair._


	8. Chapter 8: Show Me a More Little Shame

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Show Me a Little Shame_ belongs to Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals belong to themselves. The lullaby is a Russian folk song more commonly known as _Kalinka_.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Now that Peeta and Katniss are sleeping together, what happens in the aftermath of one of Peeta's episodes? Is Katniss strong enough to stay by his side?

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **I'd like to thank everyone for their continued support and reviews! I'm going to use this moment to address one constructive criticism here: I don't think Peeta is angry and sullen and on-edge all the time. In fact, I think he's rather mellow, and content to just be with Katniss again. When I read Chapter 27 of _Mockingjay_, I just knew that Dr. Aurelius would never let Peeta return to Twelve if he posed a threat to Katniss. In fact, I think Katniss is more dangerous to herself without Peeta there. And (at least to me, it seems), Peeta was working very hard in Thirteen to improve his condition to the point of where he posed no danger to Katniss, and could return home as soon as possible. Katniss is the best medicine for Peeta, and vice versa. So whilst I can understand (and attempt to write) angry Peeta, I don't think he's a raging monster. I think he's happy to be home with his Katniss, and with her, he can overcome all obstacles. No one ever said it was easy, but it's not rocket science, either. Just my opinion and characterization!

Chapter 8: _Show Me a Little More Shame_

_You, you've been looking at me just a little too long, _

_Now I can never look the same._

_Blindness and kindness, _

_There's no difference in the two _

_When I can no longer see the good in you._

I love the feeling of waking up next to him, his weight against mine. Every morning that I wake up beside him, I take as a blessing from the unknown. Every morning, I do the same thing; I curl myself closer into his chest, pressing myself to him, and wrap my arms around his neck, down his shoulder. I trace every scar with my eyes closed; his scars are like the back of my own hand. I press myself flush against him, and shiver in anticipation when I feel his hardness push against my upper thigh. In these moments, I don't know if Peeta is awake or not yet, but I certainly am. I breathe in his scent, and try to suss out his taste with my lips. I feel his heart beating, and I bring my breathing into rhythm with his. I plant small kisses on his chest once I'm fully awake. But the best part is when he opens his bright blue eyes for the first time, and he stares in bewilderment, like it's the first time he's ever laid his eyes upon me. His arms wrap ever more tightly around me, and he nuzzles my neck with his lips. It's wonderful.

This morning, it's hot, and not in a good way. Peeta leaves the windows open as we sleep and while it can be delightfully breezy at night, by morning the heat and humidity begins to set in. The sheets cling to our bodies like a shroud, but I won't sleep without sheets, and Peeta obliges. This morning is particularly uncomfortable, our bodies coated with sweat and teenage hormones. I've been resisting the urge to wake him up by touching his morning erection, but every day is a new challenge. But we're both in foul moods this morning—not from the nightmares, but rather the oppressive summer heat. He lets me have my sweet kisses, and then Peeta grumbles and tells me that he's taking a cold shower, and my breath catches in my throat as I think about his hard body in the cold water. _Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss, think unsexy thoughts!_ I tell myself as I head downstairs. The water turns on; what I wouldn't give to be in there with him.

_So won't you show me a little shame, _

_Won't you show me a little shame?_

_Now 'cause I'm, I'm a gentleman, _

_Lookin' for a gentlewomen, _

_So-called ladies keep breakin' my heart._

Peeta makes bread this morning, anyway, even though the ovens make his kitchen more like a sauna. I've thrown open every window in his house, seeking out a breeze. Haymitch's geese smell particularly bad in the early heat today. The smell upsets Peeta a bit, I suspect, because he's not his usual morning person self. I offend him further by telling him I'll just be having fruit and cheese for breakfast. He glares at me, and shoves another loaf of rye in the oven. I'm sipping my piping hot coffee and suddenly, I hear Peeta slam his fist down on the butcher-block counters.

"You'd think that the Capitol could have shared the gift of FUCKING CLIMATE CONTROL with the Districts!" Peeta snarls. The heat must have set him off. I instinctively freeze, afraid to move, afraid that he's having an episode. I set my coffee down as quietly as humanly possible, and try to slide my chair back without it squeaking. It squeaks loudly as Peeta is pulling the loaf out of the oven. _Grace and beauty, Katniss_.

"JESUS H. CHRIST, KATNISS, COULD YOU KEEP IT DOWN?" he roars, dropping the bread on the counter and clutching his hand. "NOW I'VE GONE AND BURNED MYSELF, YOU FILTHY MU—" He stops himself mid-word, and I know that by the look in his eyes, the tracker jacker venom is seizing him. His eyes are blazing, like hot coals in an oven, and burning into my soul. Peeta's breathing is erratic and I can see every vein in his body throbbing with blood and venom. Venom towards me.

_Show me a house, show me a home—_

_Show me how it could all fall apart._

_So won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame?_

_He doesn't mean it, Katniss, he's having an episode. He doesn't know what he's saying. Forgive him. Stay with him. He doesn't mean those words_. I'm not afraid of him today. I see his hand, red and throbbing from the burn. Peeta turns away from me, and grasps the edge of the counter with such ferocity that his fingertips turn white. He clenches his teeth and breathes hard though his nose, and lets out a guttural moan. His shoulders are rippling with anger, and his whole body convulses and shakes. _Don't be afraid, be brave_.

I approach him from behind, and impulsively wrap my arms around his back, snaking to his waist. I rest my head on his spine.

"Peeta, stay with me," I say quietly. He shakes violently in response. I run my hands over his chest. "No, stay. Stay here, with me," I coo, as if I am singing a lullaby. Maybe a lullaby will work. I start to sing a song my father taught me when I was no more than six.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, under the pine, the green one,_

_Lay me down to sleep,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Lay me down to sleep._

Peeta's hands join mine on his waist as I sing into his back. _Stay with me, Peeta_, I think desperately, _please stay_. His breathing begins to come down and his veins stop throbbing.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, little pine, little green one,_

_Don't rustle above me,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Don't rustle above me._

His head drops to his collarbone, and he suddenly seems deflated, and then squeezes my hand, pulling me against his chest.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, you beauty, pretty maiden,_

_Take a fancy to me,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Take a fancy to me._

It's almost like he is humming with me. Peeta slowly turns around, and his pupils are going back to their normal size, and while his eyes are still cloudy, they're blue—like the sky after a storm clears. He joins me for the last refrain, weaving his fingers through mine.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

"Always, always, always," Peeta whispers into our hands, like a prayer. I bring his scorched fingers to my lips and kiss them ever so lightly.

_'Cause now I wake up in the morning _

_More tired than before I slept._

_I get through crying and I'm sadder then before I wept._

_I get through thinking and the thoughts have left my head._

_I get through speaking and I can't remember not a word that I said._

"How did you know that song, Peet?" I ask as I examine his hand for burn damage. He gives me a wicked half-smile.

"You sang that one at assembly in school when we were eight. Remember? You were the one who wasn't paying attention."

I smile. "Real." His hand is burned, but it's not terrible—and it's his right hand, not his left hand, so he should be fairly productive if he so chooses today. He's blushing. He suddenly pulls me to him for a hard, demanding, hot kiss. He opens my mouth with his tongue, and I kiss him back, but I let him win. Peeta kisses the corners of my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Katniss, you shouldn't have to see me like that," Peeta apologizes meekly. I shake my head furiously.

"No, Peeta—that's how we heal. That's how we cope. This is how we're going to do it, even if it kills us," I retort. "I can't bear to see you suffer any more than you can bear my suffering. So let's just call it even and deal with it, okay?" He nods in agreement.

"I'm still sorry, Kat," Peeta says, pulling me in for another kiss.

"S'okay," I kiss.

_You change your mind so many times,_

_I wonder if you have a mind at all._

_And I'd rather be by myself _

_Than to have your lonesome company come to call._

I treat his burn with some herbal ointment and a cheesecloth bandage so that it can breathe in the heat. I tell him that I am going into the forest to take down some more nests, but that I'd likely be home early to escape the heat.

"I think today I'm going to stay in and paint," he says with a degree of certainty. Peeta has earned it—when he isn't dealing with my problems or baking, he's in town helping with the reconstruction. He tells Haymitch and me how swimmingly things are coming along. Haymitch sarcastically asks if town will be anything like it was before, or if he'll need a bloody map and tour guide.

"I think you should paint, it will make you feel better," I say, kissing his bandaged hand. His eyes are clear now, but he looks troubled.

"What if the paintings are… brutal, or cruel, or ugly, or hateful?" Peeta wonders aloud, searching my grey sky eyes for answers I don't have. I instinctively shrug.

"Then we'll hide them away, and no one will see them, not even me. This is for you, Peeta. No one will judge you and how you heal. I won't let them," I answer firmly, boring into his eyes with as much conviction as I can muster. This answer is good enough, and he nods.

"It's never going to get any easier, is it, Kat?" Peeta says shakily, holding his head in hands between his knees. He looks like such a little boy, trapped in a giant man's body.

"I can't promise that it'll get easier, Peet, but it won't get worse. I give you my word," I reply as I prepare him a turkey sandwich on fresh rye along with my own, and put it in the fridge to keep it fresh until lunch. Peeta grins—usually he makes lunch for me. I also make sure his pitcher of iced tea is full, and prepare a bowl of berries. (We're all about the balanced diet in the Everdeen-Mellark household.)

I kiss him like I might never get to kiss him again as I leave, pressing deliberately into his hip, and he breaks the kiss by nipping at my top lip and swatting my bottom with his good hand.

"Shoo, shoo," Peeta laughs as I scoot out the door.

_So won't you show me a little shame, _

_Won't you show me a little shame, _

_Won't you show me a little shame?_


	9. Chapter 9: Gold to Me

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Gold to Me _belongs to Ben Harper.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss begins to unlock the secrets of beekeeping while becoming more intimate with Peeta—and only Peeta can heal these wounds.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Sexy-times: Pippi delivers. I've just been waiting for the right moment to unleash Katniss and Peeta's hormones! (I just think Katniss needs to be the one to give in, because it shows that she's letting Peeta get close again.) Anyway, I've had some questions about Katniss' new hobby, the beekeeping: I chose it because I fell in love with the book _The Secret Life of Bees _by Sue Monk Kidd, and I think beekeeping sounds like a very peaceful and productive way to be in touch with nature. Since Katniss can't hunt anymore, saving the bees and their way of life gives her a new purpose. It allows Katniss to heal the forest and Peeta and herself, and I think the routine is key to her healing and recovery. I also just think beekeeping sounds like fun. I'm probably just old and weird. In any case, enjoy and review!

Chapter 9: _Gold to Me_

_You look like gold to me,_

_And I'm not too blind to see— _

_You look like gold._

Not five minutes into the meadow, do I regret my decision. The sun has already risen as high in the sky as it is going to get all summer, and there is no cloud cover to protect our delicate hides. The air is choked thick with dust and ragweed pollen and humidity, and it's already hard to breathe. I've already sweat through my lightest hunting clothes, and the damp humidity in the air is making it difficult to breathe. Even I, the Golden Girl on Fire, feel the hot sun already scratching at the back of my neck, my ears, my arms and hands. The sensation of your skin burning is uncomfortable at best, unsettling at most. My hands are slick with perspiration, and I wonder how I will grasp the bow or knife, and then sweat spills into my eyes, blurring my vision.

This morning, men are filling the other end of the field with ashes and remains, and my heart nearly bursts. I think—_Madge could be in there, the Undersees, the Mellarks_—and my breath hitches in my throat. I think of my schoolmates and their families, and my eyes fill with water and I collapse in the high, scratchy, hot grass between the lake and the forest. The mountains are hazy before me, dipping in and out of the hazy smog. _My meadow is a graveyard_, I think glumly, _how can Peeta's children come to play here now? Could I let my children literally play on the graves of their ancestors?_ I'm face-first in the grass, in the dirt, when I hear a delicate buzzing by my right ear. A honeybee has come to pay me a visit.

_You make me wanna sing _

_With all the joy you bring—_

_You look like gold. _

That bee always has the power to remind me that rebirth is possible. That bees will bring the pollen to the flowers and the trees, and that we'll have dandelions and primroses in the spring again. Flowers will grow in the meadow in honor of our ancestors, and soon their remains shall become a part of the soil and return to the earth, never really leaving us. So our children's children can continue to enjoy pastures full of dandelions. Perhaps this is the best legacy District Twelve could have left. The bee plays around my braid, encouraging me to stand up and plod on. _Keep calm and carry on! _Effie chirps in my head. I look back to the men, handing what's left of our ancestors with such reverence. They see me, and wave. I wave, and give them our three-fingered sign of respect and farewell with my left hand. They raise theirs in response, in understanding, and I continue into the forest.

"_The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep- and miles to go before I sleep,_" I sing as I traipse across the forest. I remember my father singing Prim and me that song. He said it was a poem, long before the Dark Days. I've had no luck with the tracker jackers' nests today. I thought that I spotted one, high in an old oak, and far out enough on a branch that I could theoretically light a wet fire under it and smoke them out into sleep, but lighting a fire in such dry conditions is dangerous, so I refrain and move on. A nagging suspicion in the back of my head tells me that I've likely taken down most of the nests in the immediate vicinity (my current count is at eighteen!), and I won't be able to press further into the forest until late fall or early winter. I just want one more kill, you know? Before Old Man Winter gets 'em. I then glumly recall that tracker jackers are impervious to extreme heat or cold—they might not like it, but it won't kill them either. The only things that can destroy the little bastards are fire and water. _And I'll see to that._

_Like the rays down from the sun _

_When a new day has just begun-_

_You look like gold._

I decide that the forest is wasted for the day, and I'm wilting, so I start heading back to the lake to do some fishing. For no reason in particular—mostly just because I _can_—I start running. I'm running like a deer across the forest bed, hurdling logs and ducking under branches and bouncing off well-placed rocks. I have good leaf cover overhead, and my world is tinted in hues of green and brown and gold. It's delightful. Until I leap on an old log and my foot goes right through, right through to the ground and kicks something hard. My immediate thought is that I've broken or sprained my ankle so badly that I can't feel how much it hurts. My second panic attack is that I've stumbled upon a hidden tracker jacker nest and I am wholly and utterly fucked.

My ears are buzzing, and I'm straining to hear the sounds of the enraged tracker jackers, but there's none to be had. I shake my head in disbelief, and pull my foot out from the log with a little bit of elbow grease. It would appear that I've actually just crushed a very ordinary abandoned honeybee nest. It's like killing a placemat. I don't see any bees, either, so I pick up the nest gingerly to examine it. It's about the size of two soccer balls, and weighs about fifteen pounds. Something sticky is seeping on my hand. It's amber-colored and smells clover-y; stupidly, I give it a lick. Honey! I've discovered honey! _Beetee would be so proud of me, I'm like a rocket scientist!_ I think. A small victory today! As I tuck it into the burlap sack and move onto the lake.

_I've been fooled before,_

_But now I know._

_I've made the mistake in the past,_

_But now I know the difference _

_From gold and brass._

By the time I reach the lake, I've stripped myself of all my clothes, and I don't give a damn who sees me. In fact, since I can't see anyone around me, I make a point of it to run and jump into the lake, shrieking "_**Geronimo!"**_ (It was a good idea, at the time.) I'm naked, and it feels so wonderful to be in the cool water on this wretchedly hot summer day. I can feel the smooth rocks and gloppy mud beneath my feet and between my toes, and tiny fish are swimming by and between my legs, grazing my skin with their scales and fins. My hands wrap around some seaweed, and I pull myself down into the water and let out a good scream. Now the little fish are scared, but the bigger ones are nonplussed, rolling their guppy eyes at me. I come up for air, and let my fingers play between my legs for a moment. I briefly swim back to shore to lean against some rocks, to give myself some leverage. My hot little hands find themselves between my hot little thighs, and I let my fingers explore myself in the cool water. "Peeta," I whisper, "right there." My hand flicks my nub faster.

"Peeta," I moan, "deeper." And my fingers oblige and enter my womanhood, one at a time.

"Peeta," I groan, "faster." And my fingers pick up the pace within. I'm close to something; my breathing is drawn and heavy.

"Peeta," I whimper, "harder." My fingers curl within me as my other hand teases my bundle of nerves until I slip under the water and come to.

_Well, that was satisfying_, I think to myself. I make a fishing rod with a stick from the forest and some rope, using berries as bait on my own hooks (a trick I learned from Mags). _Necessity is indeed the mother of invention, I tell myself. _I settle naked on a rock several yards from the shore. _Maybe Peeta is right, maybe being naked isn't so bad, _I tell myself. The fish certainly don't seem to mind. Maybe my performance wooed them over—maybe I _convinced_ them! _I'm such a troll_, I think. In any case, I catch five trout for Peeta and me this evening. We'll grill them outside with the brussels sprouts, I suppose. For now, it's time to get home and make something of this beehive.

_Not the kind of gold you wear,_

_But the kind that can feel my care—_

_You look like gold._

It's early enough when I get home—maybe two or three in the afternoon, but I don't want to interrupt Peeta's art work. I decide to work on this Operation Honey Extraction for the time being. I put the fish in my fridge, and the nest in the sink. I don't really know what to do with it, so I grab a small hatchet from the mudroom, and start hacking away.

The nest is tougher than I had imagined it would be, and I have to hack at it for a few minutes before it splits open and honey starts oozing out of the neat little catacombs everywhere. The honey is dark golden brown, the color of amber, and I think it smells faintly of dandelions. The wax in the combs is a fine yellow, like the color of freshly churned butter. The contrast is beautiful, and I almost stop dismantling the nest, but it seems like such a waste of their hard work, so I continue. I have it broken into four even pieces, then I break them into four more (roughly) even pieces. I thoroughly scrub my hands and arms in the sink, and gather eight mason jars. I stick each comb in the top of one of the jars—I know the comb is too wide/big to fit in the jar, but in the upright position, the honey can drip down, leaving the wax behind.

I set all eight jars up on the kitchen table, with newspaper guarding the mahogany underneath. The honey is slowly dripping down the combs, down the side of the jars. It's thick and rich and gloppy—there must be more to this honey process than I remember. I do know that tomorrow I will have to strain it through a cheesecloth several times to get out any particles, and then I have to boil it to remove any impurities, and then strain it again (while it's still boiling hot) for clarity. Whew. It'll be a good project to keep me busy, I reckon.

_Some shine when the day is new,_

_But fade when the day is through-_

_But you look like gold._

I head upstairs for a long, cold shower. Usually I love my lonely showers, where I can talk to myself and pleasure myself, and not a soul is around to hear. But since I've been staying with Peeta, I've begun to miss his company and rely on his calming presence. I don't like being alone as much as I used to. I'm at my house so rarely now—we only come over here to eat dinner and sleep. I come around more often, obviously, to change and such, but this giant house is increasingly unused. I shower quickly, but this just aggravates my sunburn. I haven't had a sunburn in years. _On the bright side—no tan lines!_ I force myself to apply aloe as best I can and I dress in a loose linen sundress. I plait my hair in two braids and wrap them across my head, like a crown. At least I look _acceptable _for dinner this evening.

When Greasy Sae arrives to make dinner, I quickly explain to her that we should cook and eat at Peeta's tonight, because I'm distilling the honey and my kitchen is a disaster. She kindly explains that my kitchen is always a disaster and sort of rolls her eyes at me, but I know she is happier cooking in his kitchen. Peeta's kitchen has everything one could possibly need to cook, and it's neat and organized and clean. Peeta's kitchen is just wonderful; he's painted it a warm orange—the color of sunset—because it is his favorite room in the house. Everything is cheery and bright, and he even has curtains and blinds at his window—the big one that looks over the back porch and into his yard. But that which I love the most is his tiled backsplash—a mosaic of District Eleven. The first time I saw his kitchen, I asked where he got the mosaic on its tiny tiles.

"I painted it," Peeta replied proudly. "It was part of my recovery process in Thirteen. Painting was the only way I could communicate, some days."

"Oh…," I replied quietly, "I didn't mean to upset you or bring up bad memories…" Peeta dismissed me with the wave of his hand.

"They're not bad, they're good. I met with District Eleven refugees in Thirteen—they told me all of their favorite things from home. That's why you see the wheat and the grains and the orchards," he answered with a big smile. "The people from Eleven—they really helped me heal with Rue and Thresh. Whenever I see this mural, I think about them and their great sacrifice, and suddenly, I'm at peace." I nod. It helps me heal, too. Peeta is just so much better with words, with his hands. With EVERYTHING.

_I've been wrong before,_

_But now I know._

_I've made mistakes in the past, _

_But now I know the difference _

_From gold and brass._

So tonight when we eat dinner at Peeta's, everything seems better, calmer, and more relaxed. I don't know if it's because dinner was particularly good, or if it's because Peeta's house is so clean, or maybe we all just had really good days, I don't know. We make pleasant small talk—but abstain from telling Haymitch about Peeta's incident (what he doesn't know won't hurt him, exactly). Peeta raves about the freshness of the trout. Haymitch makes fun of my adventures with honey. It's all very milquetoast this evening. Haymitch wanders off to pass out in the living room, and Peeta and I do the dishes quietly, efficiently. Tonight I can't stop looking at how strong his back is, his taut muscles rippling under his shirt.

Surprisingly, Haymitch is not only awake, but alert when we come in the living room to work on the Tributes book. And he's brought us a stack of untouched newspapers, some still bound with twine.

"I want to put all of the Tributes who came before you two in this book, too. Even if I couldn't help them or save them, I was their Mentor and their only link back home from the Games. AND EVEN THOUGH I FAILED THEM, I WANT TO REMEMBER THEM!" Haymitch states, adamantly.

"That sounds like a great idea, Haymitch," Peeta says warmly. I smile and nod in agreement. This is part of the healing process for Haymitch, Dr. Aurelius says, but we can't force him to do anything he doesn't want. So this is a good sign.

"I brought a newspaper from every Reaping after mine, with the two Tributes' photos and obituaries and everything," Haymitch slurred.

"So, how do you want me to paint the picture?" Peeta asks gently.

Haymitch purses his lips. "I dunno, I want to use the pictures from the newspaper—unless the kid was ugly, then you can paint 'em. And if I have a good story, maybe you can draw a picture." Haymitch nods in order to agree with himself. "And you, sweetheart, you get to be my ghostwriter. Very glamorous. Make it sound pretty." I smile and nod. We start with Maysilee, and go from there.

Haymitch actually heads home to his own bed instead of sleeping on Peeta's couch, and we head upstairs at midnight, exhausted from the day. Neither of us wants to rehash Peeta's episode, and I'm still afraid to talk about the bees. We're dancing around the truth, but it's okay for now. It's cooler tonight as we crawl into bed. Peeta is shirtless, but he notices how I'm wincing when my flaming skin comes in contact with the fabric of his old shirt that I'm sleeping in.

_You look like gold to me _

_And I'm down on bending knees, _

_You look like gold._

"Kat, your sunburn—it's terrible," he said, pulling me into him as gently as possible. I whimper in pain a little bit, and he lets go.

"No, Peeta, it will hurt more if you're not holding me," I cry. His eyes look so concerned in the moonlight.

"What can I do to make you feel better?" he finally says. I have an answer he's really going to enjoy.

"Peet, I need you to rub aloe all over my body. Everywhere. I promise I'll change the sheets tomorrow, but just for tonight, please put the aloe on." I'm giving him explicit permission to touch my naked body all over. _Nay, I am __**demanding**__ that he rub aloe all over my naked body_. Peeta just smiles. I wail weakly as he peels his shirt off my red skin.

"I like this healing business," he smirks. He gets some aloe from his bathroom, and then starts rubbing it on my arms, his hands grazing the sides of my breasts. I'm barely breathing as he applies the aloe to my breasts, cupping and examining each one in turn, gently rubbing it all over my stomach and down to my hip bones. Before turning his attention to my back, he plants a small kiss on each of my nipples, suckling with a feather-touch, and I let out a squeak. Peeta spends extra time on my throbbing shoulders and tailbone, before generously aloe-ing my rear end. His hands are soft and good at what they do, skilled after years of shaping loaves of dough and frosting cakes.

"How did your ass get burned, Kat?" he jokes.

"I told you—no tan lines!" I quip back. I need his hands on my body again.

He pulls me into his lap with my legs straddling him, and aloes my legs from the ankles up. My body feels weightless and cooler already. His hands move smoothly up my thighs, not missing an inch with the aloe. I can feel the moisture pooling between my legs and the blood flowing to my loins. Peeta obviously takes notice, and looks into my eyes as he delicately applies aloe to my place where the sun isn't supposed to shine. His hand stops between my legs for a minute, resting on my quivering thighs, and then I lean in and kiss him with every fiber of my being. _Smooth, sweetheart._ I feel him grow hard against my thigh as he deepens our kiss and slips a finger inside of me. My insides clench in the best way possible as his finger pumps in and out of my wetness. He sighs against my shoulder and another finger goes in, gently curling in my core as his thumb presses against my nub. I lean my forehead against his blond hair, and I can't decide if I burning up because I have a sunburn, or if it's because Peeta is touching me in the best place ever. I shake against him as he withdraws his fingers, lingering on my slit between the folds.

"Better?" Peeta asks. I just nod, and pull him into another kiss. We lay down on our sides, our lips never parting one another's, and I let his tongue into my mouth as he gently begins to devour me. I let my hunger overcome my prudish sensibilities, and let myself devour him right back. I'm cradled against his chest, and I swear that his skin on mine is rejuvenating. Our kisses grow gentler, longer, and deeper; he nips my bottom lip, and I mew for him. We must have fallen asleep like that, kissing, because when we wake up, our lips are pressed to one another's. And my skin is no longer on fire—but Peeta's lips upon mine are an inferno.

_And I just want you to know _

_To me you mean so much more _

_Than all the gold-_

_You look like gold._


	10. Chapter 10: Steal My Kisses

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Steal My Kisses_ belongs to Ben Harper.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta takes Katniss on a tour of the new District Twelve, and public displays of affection abound.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: As you know, FanFiction dot Net is cracking down hardcore on T or M fics that contain sex, smut, or lemons. I will now be cross-posting all of _The Secret Life of Bees_ and an upcoming AU on Tumblr! You can find me at Parachutes From Haymitch (parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com/ tagged/Fan+Fiction). This isn't ideal, since you can only comment with a Tumblr account, but I'm also in the queue to create an AO3 account. You can send anonymous messages, however, so feel free to do so. Don't be afraid to visit Parachutes From Haymitch—we don't bite (hard)! I'm going to keep posting on FF.N until the kick my smutty ass off, but I'm taking all necessary precautions.**

I wonder what everyone else thinks District Twelve looks like as it rebuilds. I see it as a small town in the Blue Ridge, nestled into the mountains and very picturesque. (Actually, I think it looks like the little Alsatian village from _Beauty and the Beast,_ but that's Little Pippi talking.) In my head canon, Peeta's been very involved in rebuilding the town and his bakery, but Katniss has been avoiding the city center because it holds so many painful memories for her. I hope that everything regarding Peeta's healing and Katniss' hobby are starting to come together. As always, read, review, and enjoy; thank you!

Chapter 10: _Steal My Kisses_

_I pulled into Nashville, Tennessee, _

_But you wouldn't even come around to see me._

As summer comes to pass, District Twelve seems to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. More families are coming home, and real progress is finally being made in town. The first thing they (the Capitol) built was of course the medicine factory, but the residents of District Twelve aren't one to go down without a fight. Since last fall, they've been building at a frantic pace, stockpiling supplies during the winter and prefabricating materials inside during the spring rains. They build day and night, even in this excruciating heat and humidity. When I return to town with Peeta for the first time since I came home, I'm astonished at how much has been accomplished in less than a year.

(I've been avoiding it because simply put, I've been feeling too guilty. Dr. Aurelius tells me that the only way I will overcome the guilt is by going back into the world. That bastard is always right.)

On one side of the square, District Twelve has a new police headquarters (since we no longer have Peacekeepers, apparently) and a volunteer fire station. There's even an official post office and bank—both firsts for us.

In front of the new town fountain, we have a City Hall, replacing the Justice Building. (Apparently, this is where we're now supposed to go for our all-important documents and general bureaucratic needs. You can take the bureaucracy out of the Capitol, but you'll never take the Capitol out of the bureaucracy.) It's vast and impressive, but instead of being stone-cold marble and concrete like the Hall of Justice of yore, it's brick and slightly more inviting. Less intimidating. ("Federal-style," Peeta calls it.)

On the other side of the square, we have a library, and behind the library, a new school for the children of Twelve. Our district has never had a library, and school had never been so convenient for the children. (Now they won't have an excuse for skipping class.) A new hospital is going up, down a new road. (We've never had real roads connecting everything in Twelve, either.)

_And since you're headin' up to Carolina, _

_You know I'm gonna be right there behind ya._

"It's like they're making it easy for us, Peeta," I say quietly as we stroll down the freshly cobbled sidewalks. It doesn't even look like District Twelve. It looks like a town from one of Peeta's drawings, or one of my father's old books. Like a fairy tale. He squeezes my hand tightly.

"Katniss, every able-bodied man, woman, and child has been working in rebuilding town since before we got back," Peeta answers quietly. "For their sake, this needs to feel like home." And just like that, he makes me feel guilty again—but he doesn't for a moment let go of my hand.

"It's nice," I reply quietly. Peeta nods in reply, smiling broadly. Even though everything is new and clean and bright, it feels like something made from our own hands. Peeta is eagerly leading me somewhere, where I'm not sure—maybe back into civilization, back into reality—but I like where it's headed.

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you, _

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._

"Katniss, close your eyes," Peeta says, stopping me suddenly in the middle of the street. I squint at him in the sun. Is he fucking kidding me? Close my eyes? I don't trust anything I can't see.

"No, Peeta, I can'ttt—" I protest, but he stops my words with a quick kiss. (A kiss that finds his tongue in my mouth.)

"Katniss, please, just trust me," he coos as he cups my cheeks in his hands. I can't deny him. Public displays of affection have never been my thing, but things I let this boy do—he practically gets away with murder. Public displays of murder.

_Now I love to feel that warm southern rain, _

_Just to hear it fall is the sweetest sounding thing._

"Always," I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, holding onto his hand for dear life. He leads me down the road for a hundred yards or so, weaving his fingers through mine. I'm sure everyone is staring at us—the Girl on Fire and the Boy with the Bread haven't been seen together in public for over a year. I would ordinarily be self-conscious—with anyone except Peeta. I go with him, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Follow me, Kat, stay with me." We turn left, and now we're practically running. When he stops, I run into his chest with a satisfying sound, wrapping my arms around his neck, feeling the hair on his neck in my fingers. "Alright, open," Peeta says, gleefully pulling me into his arms.

When I open my eyes, I'm in another town square—called the Hob (or so says the great stone gate that we just ran through). There are shops and buildings on either side of me, and ahead of us is a great market. The square itself is empty, but not for lack of purpose.

_And to see it fall on your simple country dress-_

_It's like heaven to me,_

_I must confess._

"Do you like it?" Peeta asks quietly, wrapping his arms across my stomach and pulling my back to his chest, resting his chin on my shoulder.

At first, for a few minutes, I don't even have words. I'm mute. The tears are rolling down my face, against his, and his lips brush them away. I clutch his hand so hard I think it must be turning purple. "I love it," I finally breathe quietly, "it's so perfect." He smiles against the base of my neck.

He holds out my right hand with his, gesturing toward the square. "This is going to be an open market, weather-permitting," Peeta explains, showing me their vision of a new, vibrant District Twelve. I nod, swallowing hard. It's hard to imagine commerce in Twelve without the old blackened Hob, but this is so open and inviting and OUTSIDE, and I'm entranced.

Peeta's left hand guides mine so that we're looking at the large, multi-storied market in front of us.

"That's not finished yet, it's not safe to go in, but it'll be done by winter," he says. "That's the indoor market. Inside, we have skylights, so that the light can pour in. I think District Twelve needs to be reminded of the sun, after all the time we spent in the dark." Something inside of me crumbles, and I turn to Peeta's chest, burying my face in his unbuttoned shirt and his chest hair as ugly sobs wrack my body. He looks panicked.

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you, _

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._

"Oh no, you don't like it?" he whispers. _Why does he always expect the worst from me? _I shake my head furiously.

"No, Peeta—" I croak, "I LOVE IT. Is this what you've been working on, every day?" Peeta nods. I kiss him, tears pouring down my face and into our mouths, and he hungrily feeds my emotions.

"I had a vision. I drew it. I brought it to the architects and contractors, and the guys, and we all agreed that this—this is what we needed to bring home," Peeta says. His voice is so hopeful.

"I'm so proud of you," I choke out. And I am. Peeta Mellark, the fucking patron saint of District Twelve has done it again—reduced me to a hot, crying mess in public. But he's not done yet.

"And there," he gestures, pointing to one of the shops on the left, "is the new Mellark bakery. My bakery." Peeta, in this moment, is swelling with pride and happiness and relief, and I have the urge to throw him down in the street, rip his clothes off, and do terrible things with him inside of me. The only answer I can give him is more kisses.

_Now I've been hangin' around you for days, _

_But when I lean in you just turn your head away._

"_Our_ bakery, Peeta," I remind him softly. Peeta seems to like this response, and rewards me with even more kisses.

"_Our_ bakery, I like that," he kisses the tip of my nose. "I didn't know you could bake." I bite his lip in frustration.

"No, that's true, I can't bake," I sigh, "but I'm good with numbers. I'll take care of the books." Peeta looks at me quizzically.

"I didn't know that you were good at math in school," he teases. I stop smiling.

_Oh no, you didn't mean that;_

_She said, "I love the way you think, _

_But I hate the way you act."_

"When my father died, Peeta, I had to take over our family accounts and the money, because my mother didn't know how to do it and wouldn't bother learning. If I didn't learn bookkeeping, Prim and me would have starved," I say under my breath. I don't want to talk about it, and the smirk drops from Peeta's face. He kisses the top of my forehead.

"Okay, you'll be the bookkeeper, and I'll be the baker, I like that," Peeta says, kissing my eyelids. "And I'll pay you in bread."

"Bread?" I jest, giving him my best offended expression.

"Among other things," he laughs.

"Is that a loaf in your oven, or are you just excited to see me?" I giggle. People are definitely staring at us now. But I don't care. Peeta just showed me our future, and it's not so bad. I think I can live with it.

"It's a little bit of A, a little bit of B," he whispers into my ear huskily. We start sauntering home as the sun dips below the mountains and the world of District Twelve is basked in the peach light of sunset.

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you,_

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._


	11. Chapter 11: Wagon Wheel

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Wagon Wheel _belongs to Old Crow Medicine Show and Bob Dylan.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina! Oh yes, and Everlark Pearl!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta is grieving his family before the opening of his bakery.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **No one ever really writes about how Peeta feels about losing his family or how he copes with it or heals. I'm sure it's really important to him, since he seems like a family-oriented man. (He's such an emotive person, and I think he's a train wreck mess when it comes to his family, personally.) I'd like to think that Katniss helps him, but I think she has difficulty at first understanding his need, since she's so shut off from her emotions. Thank you for your reviews and criticisms; read and enjoy!

**Remember to find me on Tumblr at parachutesfromhaymitch and AO3 as pippiblondestocking!**

Chapter 11: _Wagon Wheel_

_Headed down south to the land of the pines _

_And I'm thumbin' my way into North Caroline; _

_Starin' up the road,_

_Pray to God I see headlights._

Patience is a virtue—one that I'm sorely lacking. I remember being a child, and learning how to write, and how dreadfully bad my script was. I remember being sent home from school with a note from my teacher regarding my poor handwriting; Peeta, it may be noted, had perfect cursive from day one. I remember my mother, patiently sitting with me night by night by the fire as my father made more arrows and she worked on my penmanship. Her letters, so perfectly formed, so delicate, and yet so defined. My handwriting was chicken scratch at best, but I wanted to please her, so night after night, we practiced. My mother once joked that this was an impractical endeavor and I would never need nice handwriting, but my father reminded her that Katniss Everdeen was going places and would behave as such. Patience was my mother's virtue—ambition, my father's.

I don't know why I remember this particular instance of my stubbornness, as I sit hunched over a desk at Peeta's bakery. Maybe it's because my hands were cramping from hours of carefully copying Peeta's menu into a ledger. Maybe it's because I'd fallen out of a tree this morning. Maybe it's because I hadn't slept very well, due to the nightmares of lost children and mutts. But Peeta says it's because I received another joyless letter from my mother, and it sits heavily on my shoulders. I let out a long sigh and Peeta can't help by notice my deep breath from across the small office above the bakery.

_I made it down the coast in seventeen hours,_

_Pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers._

_And I'm a hopin' for Raleigh, _

_I can see my baby tonight._

The bakery is opening in a month, and there is much practical work to be done. Peeta wakes early in the morning to come in and bake countless loaves and cookies and cakes and pies; he claims he's breaking in the ovens, but I know how much he loves just feeding the people returning home. He works long hours, but always comes home on time for dinner. I join him now in the afternoons, after spending my morning hours in the woods. As promised, I keep the books; or rather, I am preparing the books to be kept. I list every item that Peeta plans on selling, then list the quantity made versus the quantity sold. He gives me a price and a sales goal, and I use my best handwriting to neatly note everything. The routine is quiet and simple and necessary, but there's something invigorating about actually engaging in this way with Peeta, helping to rebuild our home.

Over the course of the spring and summer, I'd destroyed twenty tracker nests; I knew I would not have more success until later in the fall and winter, when the cold and snow lull the little bastards into a false sense of security. Now I spend my mornings gathering herbs and berries, as well as the late-blooming summer fruits and vegetables. Some mornings I fish and set traps for the fresh water crabs and prawns that live in the lake. I also find that the honeybees are starting to abandon their old nests as fall approaches, and I collect the old hives and bring them to my home in the Victors' Village. I extract and distill the honey and wax, keeping some of it for myself, and the rest I give to Greasy Sae. The pseudo-beekeeping keeps me busy in the morning, and I don't think Peeta likes it.

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._

That's where some of this awkwardness comes from. One night, Peeta came home exhausted from the bakery and I was busy breaking apart a hive in my kitchen. A bee must have escaped, and it tormented Peeta, chasing him around the living room.

"GODDAMMIT, KATNISS, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BRING THESE DAMN THINGS HOME?" Peeta yelled at me, completely enraged by the bee.

"WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?" I shouted back, "IT'S A FUCKING BEE. IT CAN'T HURT YOU."

"DON'T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?" he cried, putting his hands over his ears desperately, like Annie.

And then Peeta's eyes flashed dark and dilated, and the veins in his throat and arms started pulsing with angry, hot blood. He clutched the back of a kitchen chair for a good five minutes before he could raise his head and look at me. I'd stopped everything I was doing, and just looked at him with regret and sadness. I'd triggered an episode. Well, rather, the bee had triggered an episode. Peeta allowed his breaths to become deep and even before he spoke to me.

"Katniss, I'm sorry, I know it's just a bee, but I can't help it if they remind me of the tracker jackers—" he croaked, and the words cracked in his throat. I rushed to his arms, stood on my tiptoes, and planted as many small kisses as I could around his broad jaw line. He let me kiss him, and I knew the moment had passed when he wrapped his arms about my waist and deepened the kiss.

"They scare me, Kat," Peeta said gently. "And I know they shouldn't, and they do anyway. They trigger something in me that I can't control." I nodded into his shoulder, clutching the back of his shirt, feeling every sinew in his upper back and shoulder, reminding me that he was very much alive and here. "And I don't know if I like this new hobby of yours, with the bees."

"I'm sorry, Peeta, I didn't think about that," I apologized quietly. _When will I ever stop owing this boy?_ I wondered.

"It's okay," he said, holding me closer, "I'm a work in progress, too, Kat."

_Runnin' from the cold up in New England, _

_I was born to be a fiddler in an old-time stringboard;_

_My baby plays the guitar-_

_I pick a banjo now._

We hadn't discussed that incident since that evening; that night, we just went to bed and peeled off our clothes in the damp summer heat and kissed each other until the sun came up, as if each kiss was an apology for something we'd done to one another in the past. I now made sure to finish my beekeeping in the morning and check the house for any stray bees before I returned to the bakery and before Peeta returned home.

And now, Peeta knew that I spent my mornings in the forests amongst the bees and then in the kitchen, attempting to learn their secrets and tease out their honey and wax and put them to better use. I learned how to distill the honey into a jar, and then boil it and run it through a cloth until it was smooth and viscous and nearly translucent. I used the plant book to try and figure out which bees made which honey with which plant pollen. I watched the bees in the woods to see which trees they frequented, in hope that I could learn their ways and thus more accurately label their honey. It took every ounce of my talent as a hunter to be as quiet as a small animal and watch the bees through the cracks of trees and sunlight in the woods. I must have done a good job, because almost every week Peeta and I had something new to add to the plant book.

I also learned how to scrape out the beeswax from the combs, melt it down, strain it, and distill it into something useable for candles or medicine or other purposes. Greasy Sae knows what do with it once she got the mason jar in her hands; I know that she sold it to people, in particular the new healers in town. I only wish I could learn how to turn the wax into something useful. My new hobby was peaceful and time-consuming, and I felt at peace with my place in the forest as a gatherer as opposed to a hunter. I wanted nothing more than to talk about it with Peeta, but I knew it would do nothing but set him on edge. But I know that I upset Peeta as much as it is, so I let sleeping dogs lie. I liked being busy, with the beekeeping and the bakery, and I liked being with the boy with the bread.

_Oh, the North-country winters keep a-gettin' me now, _

_Lost my money playin' poker so I had to up and leave. _

_But I ain't a-turnin' back_

_To livin' that old life no more._

So this morning when I sigh, Peeta senses that something is on my mind, and I know something is on his, too. He comes over and wraps his arms around me, grazing my breasts and kissing my neck. I lean back and lay my head against his cheekbone.

"Peeta, I'm tired," I say quietly. He nods.

"Me, too, Katniss," Peeta replies, pulling a chair from behind and sitting down next to me. He grasps my left hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

"Am I keeping you awake at night?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer. Peeta gives me the warmest smile, and my heart melts.

"In the best way possible," he kisses me lightly. "No, I'm sleeping fine. I know you've slept better, Kat." I nod slowly.

"Well then, why are you tired, Peet?" I ask slowly, searching his deep blue eyes for comfort. He shifts uncomfortably.

"I'm nervous!" Peeta blurts out, "I'm nervous about opening the bakery and what everyone is going to think! About what my family would think—if—they… were still here!" Genuine tears spill over his eyes and his head falls into my lap. All I can do is rub his back as great sobs wrack his giant body and his tears pour into my thighs. I rub his back the way my mother rubbed mine when I was a small child, hoping to impart a small degree of comfort to him. I run my hands through his tousled blond hair, and let the edge of my braid graze the nape of his neck.

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._

Now Peeta's on his knees, arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my lap. As awkward and uncomfortable as it looks, I could care less if anyone saw us right now.

"Sssh, sssh, sssh, Peet, it's okay, it's okay," I murmur. He looks up at me, and his eyes are red from crying and bright blue with emotion.

"Katniss! THEY'RE NEVER COMING HOME! NEVER! They're out there, buried in that meadow, and I never even got to say GOODBYE! And you, at least you HAVE your mother, and you won't even acknowledge her existence—" he bursts out. I feel a tear slide out of my own eyes. "Gale saved your family—and where the fuck is mine? Mine is back with the earth." His body is overcome with sobs again, and I slip to the floor with him, cradling him to my chest.

"I'll never forgive Gale, Peeta, never, not as long as there is a breath in my body—" I sob. He just nods, bunching my shirt in his hands, flailing against my hips.

_Oh my God_, I think, _how could I have been so fucking selfish?_ He's right—his mother, his father, his handsome brothers—all gone. And Peeta was right on a second account—Gale saved my family (maybe only because I asked him to), and no one saved the Mellarks. They died right there, incinerated in the their own bakery, like an oven. Peeta's father, with the kind eyes, and his laughing brothers, and even his intimidating mother. Peeta would never hear their voices or rejoice in their sight or feel their embrace. He never even saw their bodies—and there they all were, the Mellarks in a mass grave to our people by the lake. Now I don't know who is crying harder—Peeta, or me.

_Walkin' to the south out of Roanoke_

_I caught a trucker out of Philly-_

_Had a nice long toke._

_But he's a-headed west from the Cumberland Gap _

_To Johnson City, Tennessee._

"What I wouldn't give to feel the back of my mother's hand on my cheek, or bake bread with my father, or wrestle and joke with my brothers. What I wouldn't give- Katniss, you have no idea, just to hold them against me," he cries, pressing his face further into my lap. "And sometimes—this bakery—it's too much—_it smells like them_." It's all I can do keep rubbing his back and keep humming Rue's four-note melody. "Katniss, I don't want to _disappoint _them—I just want them to be proud of me. I want to do something _worthy_ of their _memory_."

"Peeta, Peeta, Peeta," I say, like a prayer. "Of course they would be proud of you—wherever they are, they're proud of you, I just know it—" He knows as well as I do that's an empty promise.

"The only reason I keep going, Kat, is because I love you the way I loved them. And I hope that someday, we have a family and our children love us unconditionally. That's the best legacy I can give my family at this point. Even more important than our bakery. Family, Katniss, that's all that matters—family. My family is gone, your family is gone—but we have each other. Our family. And when I think about that, it's suddenly okay. I can live with myself. I'm just not as strong as I used to be, Katniss," Peeta says quietly, laying soft wet kisses on my cheeks. "If the only thing stronger than fear is hope, than the only thing greater than death is love." All I can do is nod and give him a wet kiss back.

"I'm sorry, Peeta, I… I wasn't thinking about you. I'm so sorry," I insist, hoping he sees the sincerity through my half-assed apology.

He shakes his head furiously. "It's alright, Kat. The littlest things can set me off—like your bees. I need to grow up and move on, and keep things in perspective—" I stop his self-deprecating soliloquy with a deep kiss. For once, I have something to really say.

_And I gotta get a-move on before the sun-_

_I hear my baby callin' my name _

_And I know that she's the only one._

_And if I die in Raleigh,_

_At least I will die free._

"No, Peeta, I'm sorry and you're right. I'm the one who isn't keeping things in perspective—if you need to look at the little picture, then I need to look at the big picture. And you're the only important person in my big picture. And you're right—and I want all of those things with you, someday. It's just not going to be easy now. And sometimes you have to call me out on it," I apologize, all of the sincere words coming out in a stream of word vomit. His blue eyes are staring into mine, all the way down into my soul, it seems.

"You are my family, Peeta. I love our family. And we're not starting over- we're getting started," I tell him what I know he wants to hear and what I know I need to say, to get off my chest. Peeta is my family, Peeta is my world—he is my everything, and I can't exist without him. I was a goner, and I never had a chance with or without him.

"So, we'll be a family?" Peeta says tentatively. "Because, Katniss, that's all I've ever wanted with you."

"Always," I whisper, and he kisses me. I know what I'm promising him—children and grandchildren. "I'm not lying to you, Peeta, I'm not deceiving you, I'm not leading you on—" His needy mouth cuts me off. _Hard promises to keep, indeed._ Peeta kisses me until I'm lying breathless on the floor with him pinned on top of me, and I'm pulling him down to my greedy lips by his shirt collar.

"I promise I'll write my mother," I get out between our heated kisses. He responds by nipping my neck. And then I have another idea.

"Peeta?"

"Mmm," he moans as he works his way around my collarbone. I shift with anticipation beneath his pelvis and hate to break our kissing session, but I sit up on one arm. His eyes question mine.

"Peeta, would it make you feel better if I started doing the beekeeping stuff at Haymitch's house? Away from you," I ask hopefully and brush his hair off his forehead with a trembling hand. A small smile spreads across Peeta's face, and he blushes.

"Yeah, it would, actually," he laughs sheepishly. I push some of his golden hair out his golden eyelashes. (I could get lost in those eyelashes.)

"Good," I say with a degree of resolution. Peeta kisses me and I'm lying on the floor again, and his hands are creeping up my thighs. I don't want this moment to end, but he breaks our kisses and pulls me up into his lap.

"You go home, I'll finish up here and be there soon, alright?" Peeta says, kissing the last of my tears away from my eyelashes. I wrinkle my nose, but acquiesce by standing up and extending my hand to him, pulling him up with me.

"You look like a rabbit when you do that, Kat," Peeta teases, pinching my cheeks.

"What do you have to do here, anyway?" I ask as I shut the ledger and put it away in the desk.

"A couple more interviews. A few people from District Ten, and some older kids," Peeta replies, reaching for their applications on his desk. _He's doing everything by the book, Effie would be so proud_, I think. As more people return to Twelve from Thirteen, we have residents moving in from other districts, and in particular, Nine, Ten, and Eleven. (Who knew that our district would ever be desirable? A good place to raise a family? Smells like bullshit to me.) The people from Nine know everything about grain and are prolific bakers (according to Peeta); the people from Ten know everything about dairy and make a mean cheese (Peeta's words, not mine); and the people from Eleven know everything about fruits and vegetables, and make delicious pies.

Peeta is bringing in older teenagers to train them as bakers and apprentices, and he even made a deal with the school system so that they can get credits in trade mastery. ("Everyone needs a trade!" he tells me, with excitement and ambition in his eyes.) I know that he just loves spending time teaching people what he loves most. Peeta is happy and eager to bring them on in his bakery. I was so proud of him when he admitted that not only could he not do it all by himself and that he wanted help, but that he wanted to hire more people than his mother ever would have and pay them fair wages. Peeta isn't threatened by them or their talents, and just wants to have the best bakery in all of Panem. I think it's an act of kindness, for him to give them jobs and good wages and a purpose. Peeta just shrugs and says that's what his father would have wanted. Peeta Mellark, the Patron Saint of District Twelve.

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._


	12. Chapter 12: Messages

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Messages_ belongs to Xavier Rudd.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: HAYMITCH DRAMA. **Katniss turns to Haymitch for advice when it comes to healing Peeta and his family.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **This chapter was fun to write—even if it's an emotional roller coaster, because Haymitch is such fun, and I just love him. (I think Haymitch, Katniss, and Peeta are the true OT3 of _The Hunger Games.) _As always, read, review, and enjoy—the next chapter is a doozy. **LOTS OF UGLY PEETA SOBBING**. Thanks for your continued support and interest! **jennibrolawrence19, eekabeeka, Alaina Downs, Everlark Pearl, Mellark's Heart, orea domina, pookiebearfitz, cutuptwo, everlasting1286, SavannahHershey**—thank you so much for everything!

**Come see Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**And, visit Pippi at AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 12: _Messages_

_So, now come sit down,_

_Will you talk with me now?_

_Let me see through your eyes,_

_Where there is so much life._

_We are biding our time_

_For these myths to unwind,_

_These changes we will confront._

The geese squawk at me as I barge into their yard; I can hear Effie calling me a bull in a china shop indignantly now. The lights in Haymitch's house are out, but it's still early in the afternoon, and I'm sure he's just passed out drunk somewhere in a cool, dark corner of his den. I knock three times on the kitchen door before just letting myself in.

"HAYMITCH?" I yell tentatively, worried that he might just be asleep on the kitchen floor and I'll step on him or he'll throw a knife at me (wouldn't be the first time). His house is a pigsty, and for a brief moment I wish that Hazelle were here to come in and clean up after him. (I quickly remind myself that she is better off in District Two with Gale and Posy and Rory and Vick, and she's so well-off that she doesn't need to keep houses anymore.) I hear something upstairs, and with my hunter's senses piqued, I creep around his living room until I come to the foot of the stairs.

_So please beware,_

_With every place that you had_

_And look to your soul_

_For these things that you know,_

_For the trees that we see_

_Cannot forever breathe_

_With the changes they will confront._

"Hey, princess, tell me again what you're wearing," he coos to someone in a lecherous voice. As I stealthily climb the stairs, I can hear faint feminine giggling. Is there a woman is his room now? I panic. _Is he wanking?_

"Haymitch?" I call out again, unsure of what (or who) I'll be finding upstairs. I can hear the giggling tone better once I get to his bedroom door. Haymitch is sitting on his bed, with a drink in his hand, on the phone. He shoots me a withering glare and covers the phone with his shoulder.

"Whaddya want, sweetheart? I'm kinda busy, here…," Haymitch snaps. I roll my eyes.

"Haymitch? _Haymitch?_ Who's there?" the female voice on the other line chirps, and I'd know that voice anywhere.

Haymitch makes a face at me, and takes a sip of his scotch.

I start whining, "Haymitch, I need to talk to you about Peeta!" His face immediately understands.

"Eff, I gotta go. Sweetheart's here. Talk before bed?"

"Ohhh, absolutely! Give her my _best_ regards!" Effie chirps and Haymitch hangs up the phone.

"This better be good, Princess Running Deer," Haymitch growls at me, swirling his scotch in the tumbler.

"Phone sex, Haymitch? I thought at least Effie was above that," I smirk.

"Everybody's got their something, kiddo. Now, what's with the boy?"

He's put me on the spot and the cat's got my tongue.

"Peeta sent you some bread," I say lamely, holding the bag of cheese buns out to him, "but will you still come for dinner?"

"HA!" Haymitch scoffs at me. "So that's why you came by and interrupted my 'me' time?"

"It can't be 'Haymitch' time all fucking day," I joke.

"What. Do. You. Want," he says pointedly at me. I shift my weight uncomfortably. _Easy questions first_, I think.

"Haymitch, can I do my beekeeping at your house? In your kitchen? It bothers Peeta at mine, and I promise to clean up every day after I'm done, by morning. Everything will be stored in the basement," I burst out. Haymitch shrugs his shoulders.

"Sure, sweetheart. Hell if I care. Bees have never bothered me before. Now, if _you_ bother me, that's another story."

"I won't. I'll try to be quiet," I say, thankfully.

"You're doing everything in your power to get out of your house and into that boy's pants, aren't you, sweetheart?" Haymitch says, his voice pithy.

"Maybe. I don't want to worry Peeta," I retort. Haymitch might never understand how grateful I am that he acquiesced to my demands so easily.

_You know some people _

_They just won't understand,_

_They just won't understand these things._

_Thank you for your message-_

_But I don't understand,_

_No, I just wont understand these things._

"So what's up with the boy?" Haymitch snaps. I won't answer him, and now he's becoming concerned. "Did he have another episode? You need me to talk to him?" I shake my head furiously as I sink to the hardwood floor. Haymitch sneers at me.

"He's just—" I begin, and the words stick in my throat. Haymitch gesticulates with his hands, trying to get the words out of me. "Peeta's always been better with this word thing, Haymitch," I sigh.

"Always has been, always will be. If someone's not coaching you or feeding you lines, you have the personality of a dead slug," he retorts. Now he's making me angry, provoking me.

"Haymitch, Peeta is sad about his family and I don't know how to help him!" I blurt out, and then immediately cover my mouth with my hands, like I've awoken the dead. Haymitch lets out a long sigh.

"Want a drink, kiddo?" he gestures over to the bottle of scotch at his bedside table. Peeta doesn't like it when I drink, and Effie says it's not ladylike, but I'm going to need booze to get this sorted. Haymitch pours me a glass of scotch, and I take it gratefully. Unlike his white liquor, scotch is smooth and rich and tastes vaguely of honey and oak, and it doesn't burn my throat as it goes down. I smile with gratitude. "So, what's bothering him, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks again, more gently.

_And this sacred land it has_

_Seen many hands, it has_

_Wealth and gold yet it is_

_Fragile and old and all the_

_Greedy souls just don't care to know_

_Of the changes it will confront._

"I got a letter from my mom, and I don't want to read it, and it's been bothering me, but I didn't know it was bothering Peeta, too," I muse, swirling the light amber liquid in my glass. Haymitch nods, beckoning me to go on. "And we were talking about it at the bakery, and I was bitching, and then suddenly he was talking about missing his family—" I stop short as the tears spring to my eyes. Haymitch just nods.

"It never occurred to you _before today_ that he missed them?" Haymitch inquires. _No, it really hadn't, because I'd just been too focused on my own losses, and it never ever crossed my mind once that every day Peeta's in town, he's haunted by the ghosts and demons of the past. And I'm a selfish cunt who doesn't deserve him_. I don't even have to say this, because Haymitch and I have always been able to read each other's minds.

"I want to help him, Haymitch, make him feel… better. Help him say good-bye…," I stutter, but my words and thoughts and ideas are jumbled in my mouth. I look at Haymitch for advice, for a suggestion, for reassurance, but for once, he's got nothing. I realize that I'm making knots with my shoelaces. "There aren't even any bodies for him to bury…" Hot tears are streaming down my face, and I do not to stop them as I sip my drink more quickly. Haymitch now shrugs.

"There usually aren't too many bodies, sweetheart," he says kindly. _I KNOW THAT, ASSHOLE._

"So what can I do? He doesn't want to talk about it," I say timidly.

"Would you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"How did Peeta help you?"

It only took a moment for me to answer. "He came home. He came back to me. He planted primroses—" I cry into my hands.

"What did that give you, sweetheart?" Haymitch bids me for an answer.

I lick my lips thoughtfully. "Closure. Remembrance." Haymitch nods.

"So what can you give Peeta?"

"Closure. But how? I can't just copy his flower beds." Haymitch shakes that idea away with his hands.

"The boy is different than you. He needs ritual. He needs something finite." Haymitch takes an extraordinarily deep drink.

_So speak out loud of the_

_Things you are proud_

_And if you love this coast then_

_Keep it clean as it evolves_

_'Cause the way that it shines_

_May just dwindle with time_

_With the changes it will confront._

"His family, they're buried in the meadow. Maybe we could have a… a funeral, by the lake, give them a traditional farewell," I answer finally. It is our people's custom to be buried, and then have a private ceremony by a body of water where an effigy or a picture is set out to the water, and then we stay by the shore until it sinks under. We bring food and drink, and sing their favorite songs, and say something nice about them (or try, at least). It's a very old, ancient rite, and the laments have this almost primal rhythm to them. I don't know where they come from, but they're lovely.

Haymitch smiles. "That sounds nice, sweetheart."

"It's the best I can do, since they are already buried in the meadow… and the meadow is right by the lake. It's close enough—" Again, my breath hitches uncomfortably in my throat.

"I think the boy will like that, he'll appreciate that," Haymitch muses, now swirling his own drink. I try to smile, but the tears are coming down too hard.

_You know some people _

_They just won't understand,_

_They just wont understand these things._

_Thank you for your message_

_But I don't understand_

_No, I just wont understand these things._

"Will you come?" I ask softly, and I already know the answer. Haymitch firmly shakes his head.

"No. I think it should just be you and the boy," he replies.

"But you're our family now too, Haymitch," I plead. He continues to shake.

"No, Katniss, I've already said too many farewells for this lifetime," Haymitch counters softly. (I know he means business when he calls me "Katniss.") I'd also forgotten how much, how many Haymitch had lost: his friends, his family, the other Tributes. I suddenly have a burning question in the back of my mouth, behind my teeth, and before I can stop it, it rolls off of my tongue.

_So hold nice and close_

_The ones that get to your soul,_

_So that when it is cold,_

_You won't feel so alone,_

_'Cause the roads that you take_

_May just crack and break_

_With the changes you will confront._

"Haymitch, what happened? To your family? To your friends? Were there bodies?" I squeak. I know this is inappropriate, but Haymitch and I have never had a conventional relationship. He smiles at me from the corner of his mouth.

"No, sweetheart. No bodies. No mass grave. Nothing. Bupkis. Makes saying goodbye much more difficult, if you ask me," Haymitch contemplates, answering my question exactly as I had imagined. I stand up, and sit on the bed next to him.

"I'm sorry, Haymitch. We'll sing a song and leave something for them, too, okay?" I give him a hug; I know he usually hates physical contact, but he and Peeta are all that I have left right now, and I want him close to me. I feel a tear run down his face, and his Seam eyes seem a little less cloudy.

"That would be nice, sweetheart," he grins. I nod. We sit and hug for another couple minutes, and I stroke his knotted Seam hands—so much like my father's.

_With each gift that you share,_

_You may heal and repair;_

_With each choice you make,_

_You may help someone's day._

_Well, I know you are strong,_

_May your journey be long,_

_And now I wish you the best of luck._

_Well, I know you are strong,_

_May your journey be long,_

_And now I wish you the best of luck._

"Dinner in an hour?" I finally say, breaking our quiet understanding.

"Yup." I nearly trip on a pile of his clothes on my way out.

"Thanks for the drink," I say. "Also, Peeta and I are getting you a housekeeper. This is fucking ridiculous." And I mean it; for once, I don't get an argument out of Haymitch.

And with that I head back to Peeta's to prepare family dinner—fresh pike and celery root salad. It's hot enough that Peeta can grill outside when he comes home, and I can't say that I have ever been more relieved to see him. I like sitting outside on the deck, while Haymitch and Peeta banter over a cold beer or two. It feels normal, for the first time in a long time.

We clean up, and as Haymitch leaves (to make his good night phone call to Effie, no doubt), he leaves a bottle of honeyed mulberry port wine on the counter and winks at me.

"It's the least I could do, sweetheart," Haymitch says and kisses me good night on the cheek—for the first time ever. He flamboyantly waves goodbye as he saunters out the back door, into the humid Indian summer evening. Peeta picks up the bottle quizzically.

"Whaddya think this is for, Kat?" Peeta ruminates as he looks at the bottle, and then to me.

"Tomorrow evening, you and I have a date night at the lake," I say quietly, putting my olive hand over his freckled. He looks at me like he doesn't understand, but he must, because this is our people's way. I wrap my arms around his neck and he kisses the top of my head, letting go of any of his worries or concerns. I let him lead me upstairs to bed, guiding me in the dark.

And just before I fall asleep, I feel his mouth moving against my forehead.

"Is everyone happy, healthy, breathing?" Peeta murmurs. I kiss him in response. Routine is quickly becoming my friend.

_You know some people _

_They just won't understand,_

_They just won't understand these things._

_Thank you for your message,_

_But I don't understand,_

_No, I just wont understand these things._


	13. Chapter 13: Lament

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _For the Beauty of the Earth_ is a traditional English hymn, and _The Ash-Tree_ is a traditional Russian lament.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss and Peeta have a funeral for the Mellark family at the lake.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **This chapter was incredibly difficult, yet rewarding, to write. It is dedicated to the Mellarks. I sincerely hope that at some point in _Mockingjay _between Chapter 27 and the Epilogue, Peeta had a chance to say goodbye to his family. Regarding the ritual itself, it doesn't belong to any people or religion in particular. I patched it together using what I know about Celtic, Italian, and Slavic folklore and ritual. Since many Celts, Slavs, and Mediterranean people settled in Appalachia to work in the mines, it seems to make sense that their descendents would remain in District Twelve. I taught two courses on Slavic folklore in grad school, and through my research, I learned about the strong connections and relations between proto-Indo-European, pagan Italo-Celtic-Slavic linguistics, folklore, and ritual. And I'm Italian-American, so there's that, heh. Cobbling it together in Panem makes sense (at least to me). I don't think Katniss or Peeta are religious, but I think they respect and utilize ritual (i.e. the toasting). It's important; ritual brings closure. Many of the symbols and metaphors that I incorporated are universally associated with funerary rites and death.

Sorry for the mini-lecture; read, review, enjoy—thanks!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 12: _Lament_

I'm terrible at keeping secrets, especially secrets from Peeta Mellark. It had been so easy to keep things from him the Games, and yet now I had a burning desire to tell him _everything_. This morning, he made oatmeal for breakfast. I like the way he adds honey and butter and jam—it's much better than the oatmeal-gruel of my childhood. He serves me with a smile.

"I'm not wearing any underwear," I whisper at him, and Peeta's hands creep between my legs. I'm dying for him—nay, _begging him_—to touch me where the fire burns the most. He kisses me, and I push my oatmeal aside. His hand cups my folds and weave through my curls, and I shake almost violently at his touch, but rather crush his lips against mine. He drags me from my chair into his lap, his lips never leaving mine. He smiles into our morning kisses, tasting me for the first time since last night—as if I'd changed. I push the hair out of my eyes, and grey meets blue.

"I won't be in the bakery today," I whisper against his lips, "I have some ass to kick and names to take." He chuckles, cupping my cheeks with his hands. I can smell my desire upon him, on his fingers.

"That's okay, Kat, you've done more than enough. And we'll be busy soon, so enjoy these lazy days," Peeta replies, kissing the corners of my mouth. He gets up to leave for work; he's always so on top of things, being the morning person that he, and I'm always lazing about in my pyjamas as he leaves for town.

"Don't forget date night!" I tell him in a panic as he walks down the steps outside. Peeta turns around and gives me one of those award-winning smiles of his.

"How could I forget?" Peeta cries over his shoulder as he walks away. I shut the door, and sink against its cool frame. It's so goddamn hot; this whole funeral idea seems crazy now, because it won't be any cooler at night. This Indian summer has stretched deep into October. It's both a blessing and curse: it gives us more time to build in town, to prepare and stockpile for the winter, and yet at the same time, the heat is oppressive, and any efforts at being more productive are rewarded with wilted produce and dry soil. The leaves have browned and dried and fallen off the trees before taking on their brilliant color, and it doesn't feel like fall. I'd rather have frozen soil than the hot rocks that blister our steps now. My father would always remind me that these Indian summers happen, and they'll be followed by cold, deep winters, and in the spring everything will awaken anew. But all I can think about right now is the possibility that my first thoughtful gesture for Peeta will be ruined by a hot, humid, Indian summer's eve.

But today I have things to gather and people to remember. It's sort of difficult for me to remember Peeta's family; I'd had such little contact with them as a child. His mother of course, I remember as a cruel witch who was nothing but mean to her sons and husband, but seemed to run a tight ship at the bakery. Mr. Mellark, the man who loved my mother, with his kind eyes—Peeta's eyes—and a soft spot in his heart for children. As I sit against the door, I recall that Peeta's older brothers were both very handsome. They all have the same sandy blond hair and medium, stocky build. Emmer, who was three years Peeta's senior, had bright brown eyes and I think was very smart in school, as well as very athletic. And Barley, two years older than Peeta, with his mother's blue grey eyes and brilliant sense of humor—he was very popular with the girls at my school. He was on the debate team and made being smart look good. _Maybe I had been paying attention, after all_, I thought to myself.

Of course, I don't have any pictures of Peeta's family—and I'd never touch the photographs in his drawer upstairs—so instead, I go outside to our garden and gather bundles of wildflowers. A batch of chrysanthemums for his mother—seven in total, bright orange and purple in color, like a sunset. Sneezeweed for Emmer—again, seven of them and reddish-orange in color. For Barley, I cobble together the last of my Michaelmas daisies, a bouquet of lavender and grey that matched his eyes. I know that Peeta's father would be the hardest to gather—I still felt a pit at the bottom of my stomach when I thought about throwing away his cookies on the train. For him, I chose the most beautiful bloom—my precious goldenrods, the color of Peeta's hair in the Indian summer sun. Four bouquets, seven flowers each; one thing down.

Tearing out of my backyard, I make my way to the fence, and then beyond the fence, to the meadow and the lake, where I'm surrounded by high grasses. I forgot to wear shoes, and the hot crab grass cuts into my feet. No matter, I think, as I scythe the tallest, driest grasses by the lake's shore with my knife. Sitting by the lake on a hot rock, I start weaving the dry grass into a mat, just like Finnick taught me. Was it really just a year ago, that we lost him? I lose myself in my thoughts, in my mourning. The sun rises high, but not high enough to penetrate my skin. Clouds come and go, and I sit for hours by the lake, weaving four grass mats for Peeta's family.

Ordinarily, for our funeral rite, someone makes a small wooden box or plank for the effigy, but I'm no carpenter, and there's no time to ask the carpenter in town to build me four little coffins. (I don't want to drag him into this anyway.) _If necessity is the mother of invention, then I'm a rocket fucking scientist_. My grass mats will have to do. I test one, on the water of the lake with a misshapen rock, and it doesn't immediately sink. I think it'll be alright tonight, at least okay enough to float out to the middle before it sinks down into the sweet depths of the lake.

I sprint back to Peeta's house—_why am I running so much today?_—and see that it's nearly three in the afternoon already. _Haymitch is right, I am a space cadet_. But it's really no matter. I have enough time to collect the wine and the bread and the cheese and the sausage and the blackberries (the berries must be both sweet and sour—so is life!) and the peas; we always send our dead to the afterlife with peas, because peas hold the souls of the dead (if I didn't have peas, I'd use beans). We send our dead with juniper berries, because the dead use the juniper to pay the gatekeeper (and the juniper represents the afterlife and is a token of rebirth). I find some juniper berries in Haymitch's front yard. I'm terrified that Peeta will walk through the door at any moment, and see what I'm assembling, and he'll know what I'm up to. I run over to my house, and grab six of my homemade candles. (Fire is very important to any funerary ritual, didn't you know?) They are just votive candles, sitting in simple, flat tin rounds, but I made them myself and I know they'll be able to float on my grass mat with the flowers. They will safely guide the Mellarks to the afterlife. I take one for each member of the Mellark family—including Peeta and myself.

Finally, I gather a bouquet of the last of the primroses, before they too settle in for a long winter's nap. I think that Prim would be very proud of me, in this moment. I set the primroses in the wicker basket with everything else; I remember to take six wine glasses from the cupboard, and wrap them in a blanket. You can't toast the dead without proper glasses. I count everything once, twice, thrice, and then dash upstairs for a shower.

I barely step out of the shower and into Peeta's bathroom before I can hear him crash though the front door.

"KATNISS, I'M HOME. I BROUGHT YOU SOME CHEESE BUNS. WHERE ARE YOU?" Peeta shouts gleefully, like a small boy. I feel a rush of regret regarding what I'm about to put him through.

"BATHROOM," I shout back, but not before I can hear him clambering up the stairs. _He'll never learn to be quiet_, I sigh, _and I wouldn't have him any other way_.

Peeta tackles me to the bed, playfully wrestling with my bathrobe.

"Is this our date?" he kisses my neck, slipping one of his hot hands under my robe, over my breast. I shake my head but kiss him back anyway.

"Nope, sorry," I reply, blushing. _Don't stop_, I think frantically, _I know we have to, just don't_.

"Do I need to change?" Peeta asks. His face is streaked with flour, and he smells like baking wood chips. I smile and shake again. He always looks nice when he's at the bakery—clean trousers, a fresh-pressed button down shirt, and neatly combed hair.

"No, Peet, you're perfect—I just need to find some pants," I reply, kissing the place where his neck meets his collarbone. He releases me and flops back on the bed, pretending to go to sleep while I get ready. I'm relieved that he isn't down in the kitchen, piecing together my puzzle. I put on a simple cotton sundress and braid my hair—I want to look nice, but nothing fancy. There's nothing fancy about our funerals.

Peeta sits straight up. "Isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful?" he sings to me as I come over to the bed, and sit in his lap, taking in his smell, his taste, his touch. I giggle.

"You ready to go?" I ask hesitantly, grasping his hand in mine.

"Of course," Peeta replies, his eyes full of concern. "What, exactly, are we doing?" I lead him downstairs, afraid to answer the question.

"We're going to the lake. Would you grab a blanket, Peeta?" I finally respond. He nods, and takes the wool blanket on the back of an armchair.

He links his arm through mine. "Are we having a picnic?" Peeta breathes. A smile escapes my lips.

"Of sorts," I say vaguely, and we leave through the backdoor. He carries the basket for me, desperate to know what's under the delicately arranged placemat. It's sunset, and District Twelve has taken on a distinctly warm, golden hue. We don't exactly slip under the fence with Peeta's artificial leg, but we don't make too much noise, either. For once, Peeta is silent as we walk hand in hand to the lake. We walk past the meadow, and I feel him squeeze my hand so tightly it might fall off; this is the way he held my hand in the chariot and in the tunnels below the Capitol. When we reach the shore, he spreads the blanket out before I can even ask, and sets the basket in the middle.

"What are we doing, Katniss?" Peeta asks me softly, holding both of my hands in his and turning to the lake. The sun sits low on the horizon, and the water is bathed in its warm seashell light as the moon rises to the east. I gesture for us to sit down. I sit down in his lap, like a small child.

"Peeta," I say, his name like it's the first time it's graced my lips, "I know that I haven't been the most understanding person. I know that I don't always think about you first, and I'm always putting myself ahead of you. But I want you to know that I realize how happy and lucky I am to have you in my life, now and forever," I continue quietly. "And I want you to know how much I love you, and appreciate you, and how very much I want you to find peace." Peeta's a smart boy, and I think (hope?) he knows what's coming. I take his chin in my hand and gaze into his steady blue eyes. "Peeta, I know how much family means to you. How much you want to have a family with me. We need to say goodbye to your family, so that they can be a part of our family." Peeta absolutely understands what I'm saying as he touches his lips to mine.

"We're—we're going… to have a funeral," Peeta forms the words slowly, "so that I can say goodbye. To my family."

"We can say goodbye," I delicately remind him. He squeezes my hand because he knows what's coming up next. We set the primrose bouquet in the middle, flanked by two candles (one representing birth, the other death). And then, I start to sing.

_For the beauty of the earth, _

_For the glory of the skies, _

_For the love which from our birth _

_O'er and around us lies; _

_Lord of all, to thee we raise _

_This our hymn of grateful praise._

We start to set a place for each member of his family at our blanket, each bundle of flowers marking a person; mums for his mother, goldenrod for his father, sneezeweed and daisies for his brothers.

_For the beauty of each hour _

_Of the day and of the night, _

_Hill and vale, and tree and flower, _

_Sun and moon, and stars of light; _

_Lord of all, to thee we raise _

_This our hymn of grateful praise._

Peeta uncorks Haymitch's port wine, wordlessly, pouring each of us a generous glass. I sing, my voice growing stronger with each chorus.

_For the joy of ear and eye, _

_For the heart and mind's delight, _

_For the mystic harmony, _

_Linking sense to sound and sight; _

_Lord of all, to thee we raise _

_This our hymn of grateful praise._

I serve the Mellark place settings first; bread, and then cheese and sausage and then the peas and the blackberries. I serve Peeta, then myself.

_For the joy of human love,_

_Brother, sister, parent, child, _

_Friends on earth and friends above, _

_For all gentle thoughts and mild; _

_Lord of all, to thee we raise _

_This our hymn of grateful praise._

I'm singing to the sun and the moon and the stars and the trees as the lake laps gently at the shore. But mostly, I'm singing to Peeta and to his family. Tears are pouring out of Peeta's eyes, but he mouths every word with me.

_For thyself, best Gift Divine, _

_To the world so freely given, _

_For that great, great love of thine, _

_Peace on earth, and joy in heaven: _

_Lord of all, to thee we raise _

_This our hymn of grateful praise._

Peeta sets the candles at each of his family member's seats, and then lights them, starting with his father and ending with Barley. I drizzle honey over the plates—a reminder that life is simple and sweet. We eat quietly, savoring each morsel, yet saying nothing. Mockingjays start their nightly serenade in the background, echoing my hymn, and I can see the wet tears on Peeta's cheeks, catching in his eyelashes. He blots them with a handkerchief, and I reassuringly squeeze his hands. For the first time since we arrive at the lake, he cracks a grin. He stands up, leaving me on the blanket, preparing to make his toast.

"I suppose it's time for me to say something—really, say anything," Peeta says, opening with a joke. _Peeta could charm the dead out of their slumber, _I think to myself.

"But what can I say, really? I'm sorry that you're gone. I'm sorry that I couldn't help you. I'm sorry that I couldn't save you. I'm sorry that I failed you as a son." The smile fades from Peeta's face, and I nod at him, hoping to impart some of my comfort. "But mostly, I'm sorry that you died at work. You people never could take a vacation, could you?" And Peeta laughs at his own joke; I let my breath out.

"I'm happy that you are here, so close to us, so that I can come visit you. I'm glad you're here for all eternity amongst friends, so that Mom has people to ridicule, and so that Dad has some real company for a change," he says, laughing to himself and taking a sip of wine. "I'm glad that you're not alone. I'm not alone, either. Katniss is here with me. Actually, this was all her idea." I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks—how could Peeta turn his family's last rites into something about me?

"Dad, I'm glad that you didn't marry Katniss' mom. I'm glad that she ran off and married a coal miner, because now I can be with her. Mom, I'm glad that you nagged Dad into marrying you, because Katniss needs someone to keep her in line." A chuckle escapes my lips (despite my best judgment). Peeta pauses for a moment.

"Emmer and Barley, I'm glad that you two have each other in the afterlife. I hope that somewhere you're beating the tar out of each other right now. And fighting over hot girls." It's okay to laugh aloud at that one, I think.

"Emmer, thank you for teaching me how to wrestle. That came in handy recently," Peeta chokes up at this, a bit; I know he's thinking of the Games. "Also, thanks for teaching me to turn my underwear inside out to get an extra day out of it. Very useful, my brother." Peeta is now in absolute tears, but he presses forth.

"Barley, you taught me everything I need to know about the ladies, even though I haven't used ninety percent of your wisdom yet. I still can't believe how you claimed to have found a g-spot when you were twelve years old. I miss your humor." Peeta takes a moment to inhale the warm fall breeze.

"Mom, you taught me the importance of rules and efficiency and order. Thank you. I don't know how you managed to raise three boys and a husband, but you're a very special woman. I wish I'd given you another hug before I left, but this will have to do." He stops, like he doesn't know where to go next. I stand up, and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing myself against his chest.

"And Dad… Dad, I don't know where to begin with you. You made me the man I am today. I like to think I'm a good man, a principled man. Thank you for giving me a trade, a purpose, a legacy. Thank you for being kind, thank you for teaching me to find the good in little things and to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. I think about you everyday, and just hope that I can be half the man you were. I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart. And though it's a big heart, but it's not a lot of work." Peeta's tears are mixing with his sweat, and he kisses the top of my forehead.

"I suppose I should say something," I say, my voice breaking with emotion, and I feel Peeta nod. "Thank you, for giving me the boy with the bread. Peeta is my family. He's my everything. I need him to survive, I need him to protect me, I need him to take care of me—and I know that you taught him all of that. Thank you for raising such a strong young man, so strong that he could go on live television and tell and entire country that he's in love with me, and ignite a rebellion. Thank you for giving him the strength to survive and return to me. Thank you for giving him a bottomless heart and free emotions and the gift of smooth talking." Peeta laughs a little at that one. "Thank you for raising a man strong enough to contain the girl on fire. Thank you for my dandelion in the spring. Thank you."

Peeta hugs me tightly, and together, we kneel down by the lakeshore. We carefully arrange each bundle of flowers on a grass mat with a votive candle and handful of juniper berries. And, again I raise my voice in song:

_I asked the ash-tree, where was my loved one; _

_The ash-tree didn't answer me, shaking its head._

_So I asked the poplar, "Where is my loved one?"_

_The poplar only covered me with its autumn leaves._

Peeta lights Barley's candle, and set his grass mat into the water. The waves start taking it away from the shore.

_So I asked the autumn, "Where is my loved one?"_

_But autumn only answered me with its pouring rain._

_So I ask the rain, where was my loved one;_

_For a long while rain poured its tears, under my window._

Together, we light Emmer's candle, and set him off. The mockingjays are joining my song to the afterlife.

_So I asked the moon crescent, "Where is my loved one?"_

_The moon crescent hid underneath a cloud, didn't answer me._

_So I asked the cloud, "Where is my loved one?"_

_But the cloud only melted, into the blue skies._

Peeta swallows hard, with difficulty, and lights his mother's candle. Together, we set it into the water, and she's swept away.

_My only friend I'm asking you, where is my loved one?_

_Tell me where she's hiding; do you know where is she? _

_My loyal friend answered me, so honestly he answered me:_

"_She was your loved one, once was your loved one—_

Finally, we light Mr. Mellark's candle and set the mat onto the lake's surface. Peeta holds onto it a bit longer than he did the others.

"You'll see me in the afterlife, Dad, but not until I've lived this one, and you'll meet your children's children, it's just going to be awhile," Peeta cries as the candle flickers. He lets go.

_She was your loved one, but became my wife." _

We then pour the rest of the Mellarks' wine out into the earth on the shore by the side of the lake as the waves whisk the grass mats into the center. The food gets set in the water; it will sink shortly. We carefully pack what remains into the basket, and then Peeta and I sit in silence—save the mockingjay's refrain—until we cannot see the candlelights bobbing on the surface of the water.

Peeta's arms are wrapped tightly around my shoulders as his body is overcome by soft sobs, and he sinks his head into my lap, and I utter sweet nothings until I feel his breath fall sweet and even, and the tears on our faces begin to dry. Peeta stirs in my arms.

"May the road rise up to meet you; may the wind always be at your back; may the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields; and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand," Peeta says, his voice proud and strong. I smile, wiping the tears shining from underneath his eyes with my fingers.

"I want to go home," he said, his voice suddenly tired and full of longing. We stand together, face the lake, and give the Mellarks our three-fingered salute. Peeta's fingers linger on his lips as he fights back more tears, but hoists his hand proudly and smiles one more time, for his family.

We walk home in silence, Peeta's arm snaked around my waist. The moon has risen high in the sky and has taken on the color of goldenrods. The mockingjays and nightingales are singing sweet melodies to us in the night. Everything gets left in the kitchen; I'll deal with it in the morning. Peeta and I crawl into bed, naked, and in one swift motion he's pulled me to his chest and entwined my legs with his.

"Katniss, thank you," Peeta kisses me, over and over again as we fall asleep.

"I love you," is my reply, only to be answered with more kisses. I just want to lie here in Peeta's strong, steady arms forever, his body pressed against mine—a very physical reminder than even after all we've been through, he is alive and he's with me. And he's mine, all mine, and no one can take him from me.

"Always."


	14. Chapter 14: By My Side

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _By My Side _belongs to Ben Harper.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina **(are you reading _A Thousand Kisses Deep_? It's getting even better)**!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta's new bakery opens in town, and some surprising visitors drop by; can Katniss keep it together for Peeta?

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Sorry for the ugly sobbing that ensued (evidently) after my last chapter. FEEL ALL THE FEELINGS, FANDOM. This chapter is light and fun, paving the way for some new character development and relationships. As usual, thanks for the reviews, comments, and criticisms—read and enjoy! (Smut is coming in the next two chapters, double-pinky promise.)

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 14: _By My Side_

_Don't you get ahead of me, _

_And I won't leave you behind. _

_If you get unhappy,_

_You've got to show me a sign._

"KATNISS KATNISS KATNISS!" I wake up next to a very excited Peeta Mellark, literally jumping up and down in our bed, making the very walls shake. I'm not one for such energy in the mornings; I like coming to quietly, slowly opening up my eyes, curling closer towards Peeta. But this morning, he's obviously been awake for quiet awhile, and has other ideas. He's like a little boy on the morning of his birthday.

"Mmmph," I reply, reaching out for him to pull him into a long kiss. He allows it for a few moments, then breaks it off.

"C'mon, Katniss, wake up! We need to get going!" he says excitedly, tickling me. I'm breathless, but find the energy to sit up and take his face in my hands. _Peeta, you know I'm not a morning person_, I think to myself, unable to chastise him.

"UGH, Peeta, I know, today's a _big big day!_ But can we just take things one at a time, namely, getting me out of bed and into a cup of coffee," I moan breathlessly. Peeta shakes his head furiously.

_There's no love like lost love _

_And no pain like a broken heart._

_There's no love like you and me, _

_And no loss like us apart._

"No time for breakfast—we'll eat at the bakery—time for a shower!" Peeta replies, scooping me into his arms, running me into the bathroom, and turning the shower on full blast. Luckily, we sleep naked, so I don't have any clothes to ruin. I sit there in the shower, enjoying the steam, until Peeta barges in and pulls me onto my feet and against his hard body.

"Katniss," he says into my neck, "we need to look our best today." Peeta gives me a little nip and I crane my head up, drinking the water than runs off his jaw. "Come on, Kat, seriously, lather up!" I'd rather let him lather me up, which is what he means anyway, so he furiously scrubs away with a gel that can only be described as gingery-orange. I wash my own hair, taking care to disentangle it, and admire Peeta's body in the steam. His broad, straight back and shoulders, his strong legs, his perfect pelvic bones… I start touching myself briefly as his back is turned to me, and I stop as he turns around.

"Good enough," Peeta muses, cutting off the hot water, wrapping himself into a towel, and picking me up and out. I reluctantly start drying off, one limb at a time.

"Are you ready for this, Peet?" I ask quietly as we're both staring into the mirror; I'm fixing my hair into two long-ish braids, and Peeta takes care with his part for once. Our skin grafts are finally starting to look like our own hides again.

"I like it when you wear two braids, Kat," he says huskily. "It gives me something to hold on to." I giggle.

"Are you ready?" I inquire, seriously, "_Today's a big, big day!"_ I mock in my best Capitol accent. Peeta gives me his most charming smile.

"Are you kidding me? I'm finally opening my bakery today!" he answers brilliantly, and I can't help but be excited for him.

_"Promise" is, "promise" is only a word—_

_And when softly spoken is never heard,_

_And a heart is not a stone,_

_And is fragile when alone._

Today is the first day of the Harvest Festival (which has been rescheduled accordingly with the actual harvest at the end of October) and Peeta is opening his bakery today. He's only been working on it since he came home in March; he's poured his heart and soul into it. Ever since he started baking bread for the people returning home, I know that the bakery has propelled him forward everyday, giving him purpose, giving his life meaning. It's been a long road, returning to the shell of District Twelve, but everyone pulled together and decided that the Harvest Festival would mark the resettling of the district.

Other shops in the Hob and market have been opening, but Peeta wanted to wait until the Harvest Festival to open his shop—to make it something really special. Unlike many other people, Peeta isn't opening the bakery to make money—it's his way of life. He even joined the Merchants' League in town, and they all meet once a month to discuss commercial activity and prospects in District Twelve; he's its youngest member. I'm proud of Peeta for taking such an interest in his craft and Twelve's prosperity.

But, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terribly nervous about today. I'm nervous about being on display all day, talking to people and answering their questions. It's the first time since the Victors' Tour Ball that I'll be required to be in public and on top of my game for so long. Peeta's not nervous—rather, he's excited. He's always been the charming one, dreadfully handsome with a dazzling smile, and good with his words. You ask him to put on a show, and he'll ask you which part you want him to play. (No wonder Coin liked him more.)

_By my side, _

_By my side—_

_Won't you be by my side?_

The past week, I'd been agonizing over with Haymitch in the mornings as I made honey and beeswax. I found myself having panic attacks about being in the public eye again—it was all well and good for me to be behind the scenes as the bookkeeper, working in obscurity above the bakery, but it was another for me to be front and center.

"Haymitch, what if I have a panic attack and shut down?" I would ask frantically.

Haymitch would take a sip of his vodka and grapefruit juice and roll his eyes. "You won't have a panic attack, sweetheart. Peeta will be right there with you. You only freak out when he's gone," Haymitch smirked. Fair point. _Haymitch: 1. Everdeen: 0._

"Haymitch, what if I say something stupid, or wrong?" I cried.

"You always say something stupid or wrong or mean, so just deal with it and move on," he'd reply. _Haymitch: 2. Everdeen: 0._

"Haymitch, what if I do something wrong?"

"What could you possibly do wrong, sweetheart? You just need to stand there and be pretty and smile and wave. That's it, that's the bottom line." _Haymitch: 3. Everdeen: 0._

"Haymitch, what if nobody comes?" I voiced my greatest fear, the one that Peeta himself would not acknowledge or give voice to.

Then Haymitch would laugh mirthlessly. "They're not coming to see you, sweetheart. They're coming to see Peeta." And Haymitch would, of course, be right. _Haymitch: + infinity. Everdeen: 0._

I'd ask Haymitch to try some honey, see what he thought, and then ask him another final question.

"Why do I need to be there, Haymitch? I'd be there, if only for Peeta, but why is it so important to everyone else?" I'd say very quietly.

"Because people need to see you and Peeta together and happy and functioning. It gives them hope. It makes them happy. It makes them think that everything might be okay. After all, everyone loves a pair of star-crossed lovers. They need to see their mockingjay and her rock. That's it, that's the bottom line," Haymitch would finally answer. "Just remember—you're there for the boy. _Nothing more, nothing less_. Think about that when you start to panic." I nodded, slowly.

"You're right, Haymitch," I always replied. _This was for Peeta—my Peeta_.

"Katniss, stop being such a bitch and think about Peeta, okay, sweetheart? Got that? Good. Get outta my sight. You're killing my morning buzz."

_By my side, _

_By my side—_

_Won't you be by my side?_

I replay those conversations in my head over and over again as I get ready this morning. Peeta is already dressed and pacing for me downstairs; I know he's anxious to get on with it, and I'm dawdling. I pick out a red plaid skirt and a low-cut black sweater; a little sex appeal never hurt anyone, right? (Besides, Peeta likes this sweater.) I pull on my fabulous knee-high black patent leather boots that Cinna designed for me. After a moment of thought, I pin the mockingjay to my sweater. I need a little flare, I reckon. I finish by pinning the braids across my head, taking care to tuck each one under one another. I look presentable, even pretty almost.

Stomping downstairs unintentionally, I find Peeta in his living room, nervously pacing in front of the fireplace. He stops and smiles at me, taking a deep breath and coming to me in what seems like one footstep.

"Katniss, you look beautiful," Peeta kisses the corners of my life, "you're so perfect. You look just like you did on our first day of school."

"You clean up nice, too," I say, blushing. Peeta always looks nice (if you ask me) and today he's wearing his finest khaki trousers and a light blue button down shirt that matches his eyes. We make quite a pair, I think. I reach up and button his top button and smooth his collar, and he chuckles.

"You hate that, don't you, Kat?" he teases, his hands trailing down my back to my rear end.

"I don't want you to look sloppy, Peeta Mellark," I say in my best Effie voice. He grabs my hand and we rush to the door.

"Ready, Katniss Everdeen?" I just nod my head and smile.

"Whatever you say, Peeta Mellark."

_My care for you _

_Is from the ground up to the sky. _

_It's over under up above and _

_Down below and to the side._

All of my fears about the day seem to be vaguely unjustified. _Haymitch is right, I'm just a worrywart who can't be happy unless she is miserable_, I think. As promised, there is coffee at the bakery, and Peeta lets me try anything I want for breakfast. His team has been there since very early this morning, making sure that everything is ready to go. Peeta puts a few artistic finishing touches on some cookies and cakes, but he is keeping his gut reaction to control everything in check. I know how difficult it is for him to let someone else be in control of his bakery, but he couldn't do it all on his own, so he has to trust them. His employees really seem to like him, and they just respond to him, like keys on a piano. I manage to sneak away upstairs for a bit under the pretense of working on the books, but sooner rather than later, Peeta drags me back down.

"C'mon, Katniss, we're opening! WE'RE OPENING!" Peeta squeals, and squeezes my hand as the doors open and people begin flooding in. Some faces are familiar (from Twelve and Thirteen), but many are new. Peeta is there, shaking everyone's hands, with a kind word for each smile, and a hearty hug for those who want one. Today, everyone gets a free cookie, and the children in particular are thrilled. Peeta lets them pick out their own frosted masterpiece, and encourages them to come back for seconds.

One woman from Thirteen comes up to me and pulls me into a hug. "Oh, Miss Everdeen, this is so wonderful!" she exclaims. I can't remember her name, and this causes me to blush even more. "The children have never had cookies before—they're so excited! Your Peeta—he's such a good man." I feel a smile come across my cheeks.

"He is, he really is. I'm so lucky to have him. And I'm Katniss Mellark, here," I reply, giving her hand a tight squeeze. She seems to understand what that means and she leaves me to go after one of her boys that has ducked under a display. Peeta flashes one of the smiles he saves only for me from across the room in my direction; I wonder if he's heard what I told the woman from Thirteen. Maybe I wanted him to.

The line at the counter is wrapping around the store and out the door when I hear a great commotion at the back of the line. When I finally get a look around Peeta's great frame, I see none other than Miss Effie Trinket perched on the arms of Haymitch Abernathy. Reflexively, I break away and run to Effie, nearly tackling her in a hug. She looks like a fashion icon, as usual, with her bright red hair pinned up around her face with bunches of pearls, and she's wearing a black and white stripped pencil-skirt and fitted blazer with red pumps. Even in District Twelve, after a rebellion and a war, Effie Trinket looks like a fashion plate.

_My care for you _

_Is from the ground up to the sky. _

_It's over under up above and _

_Down below and to the side._

Peeta has joined our embrace now, pulling Effie into a bear hug.

"EFFIE! IT'S INCREDIBLE TO SEE YOU!" Peeta exclaims. Effie is blushing, even under all of her make-up.

"Well, Peeta, today is a big, big day—how could I miss it!" Effie chirps. She smiles at me and grasps my hand with such verve.

"Katniss, darling, you look wonderful—such a LADY!" Effie says, taking me in with great pleasure. "The boy has done wonders for you. He's put more than just color in your cheeks," she jokes, pinching my cheek a bit. I blush the color of a ripe beet, and nod.

"Effie, what are you doing here? How did you know?" I ask breathlessly. Haymitch is with Peeta, making the rounds and greeting people around the bakery. (They're quite the tag team, when they want to be, those two.)

Now it's Effie's turn to smile and blush. "Well, dear, you know that Haymitch and I have been… in touch. And when he told me about Peeta and the bakery and the Harvest Festival, he invited me to come. And a lady never rejects an invitation from a gentleman," she whispers and lets it sink in to me for a few moments before kissing my cheek.

"So you and Haymitch… you've been… talking?" I muse. Effie nods. "How long have you been seeing each other?" Effie shrugs, lowering her eyelashes seductively.

"About a year now," she replies flirtatiously. (A year ago, Haymitch saved her from the Capitol and kept her alive. After all this time, I finally put two and two together.)

I smile. "You'll need to come visit us more often, Effie!" And I mean it.

_There's no use in pretending, _

_No use in saving face,_

_For my love is never ending,_

_And you are my saving grace._

Just as I'm getting over my shell-shock regarding Effie, a very blond Delly Cartwright bursts into the bakery. Peeta sees her and immediately sweeps her into a big hug, and I feel a pang of jealousy until Delly rounds on me, showering me in kisses and hugs. I cannot escape her embrace or lips, so I simply return her affections as best I can.

"Katniss! It's so wonderful to see you! I just got home, and when I heard that Peeta was opening his bakery, I had to come see you all!" Delly shrieks.

"How'd you know that I'd be here?" I ask weakly. Delly just rolls her big brown eyes.

"Katniss, come on, I might be blonde, but I'm not clueless—you and Peeta are inseparable! Where else would you be?" Delly gushes. I feel badly, because I should never have suspected her motives, but I guess I'm still bitter about all the time she spent with Peeta in Thirteen. I smile at her and she just hugs me. Good, kind, sweet Delly, always finding the good in people.

"That's a good question, Delly," I reply. She gives me a sad half-smile.

"What do you do with yourself all day now, Katniss?"

It takes me a moment to think about my answer. "I fish. I garden. I bee-keep. I work here, with Peeta. I don't hunt anymore, Delly," I answer, my eyes falling to the floor, like I'm ashamed. A squeeze of Delly's hand tells me that I shouldn't be.

"I didn't know you could bake, Katniss," she continues with a smile, pressing me for information.

_By my side, _

_By my side—_

_Won't you be by my side?_

I feel Peeta come up behind me and wrap me into a deep hug in his arms, resting his head on the top of my braids. "Katniss can't bake to save her life, Delly. But she keeps my books," Peeta laughs, kissing the top of my head. Public displays of affection are still not quite my thing, but for Peeta, I can bear them.

Delly laughs that loud, bright infectious laugh of hers. "Oh, well, Katniss was always good at math in school. And if I remember correctly, you never quite liked numbers, did you, Peeta?" Delly says. Peeta shakes his head and rolls his eyes, letting me go, and continues to meet and greet people.

I hold Delly's hands a little tighter; she reminds me of home, of District Twelve before everything happens, and I can't hold her good nature against her anymore. "I'm happy to see you, Delly. District Twelve wasn't the same without you!" I say sincerely, grasping her hands. She smiles.

"It's good to be back, Katniss. Speaking of back, where are all the single men?" Delly giggles. She hasn't changed a jot. And just like that, I think that I, Katniss Everdeen, found a girlfriend in District Twelve. Peeta will be so pleased.

I find Effie in the crowd before she and Haymitch leave. I invite them to dinner, but she kindly rejects our offer and explains that Haymitch has made reservations in town, and that hopefully, I understand. Once I've assured her that Peeta and I aren't offended, I ask her one more question, because Effie is still our go-to person for supplies from the Capitol (she'll never get out of that responsibility, seeing as no one else wants to deal with us).

"Effie? Could you send me some beekeeping boxes and bee combs?" I ask, almost shyly. Effie looks at me quizzically, because she doesn't understand what I'm telling her, what I'm asking her.

"Eff, I don't hunt anymore, I tend to the bees, and I'd really like to cultivate a colony this winter. I'll keep them in Haymitch's yard, and I make honey and candles and medicine, and I'd ask the local carpenter, but he's so busy, and this is frivolous," I stammer, and Effie grins.

"I know, Haymitch has been telling me. I'm impressed!" Effie laughs. "But of course, I'll send you the materials; how many do you want?" I didn't think she'd catch on so quickly.

"Six boxes, maybe thirty-six combs? Just to get me started," I surmise. They'll surely fit next to Haymitch's geese.

"You don't need me to send you any bees now, do you, Katniss?" Effie asks, a look of uncertainty creeping into her eyes. It's obvious that she has no idea how this works. _City-slicker_. _Or maybe it's the fear of the tracker jackers, we'll never know exactly what they did to Effie…_ I shake my head, and she smiles in relief. "Oh, thank goodness. And you know, Katniss, hunting was never very ladylike with which to begin! You're learning your manners!" She kisses my cheek as Haymitch takes her arms, and waves goodbye to Peeta and me as Haymitch sweeps her off into the sunset.

"Those two crazy kids," Peeta sighs, trying his best to sound like a grizzled old man. He still elicits a chuckle out of me.

The first day of the bakery was a success; we don't leave until late in the evening, and Peeta delegates the morning responsibilities to some of the bakers from Nine. "I need my beauty sleep, guys," Peeta jokes as we're finally leaving. I tell him that I'll be in early to work on the accounts tomorrow, but it isn't happening tonight. I'm exhausted—emotionally and physically, and Peeta carries me home in his arms like a small girl. Up the stairs, and into our big, soft bed. Peeta collapses next to me, and draws patterns on my cheek. I smile briefly.

"Good opening day, Peeta?" I ask sleepily, yawning inadvertently. He pulls me ever closer and nods.

"Perfect, Kat. Thanks."

"For what?" _I'm such an ignorant twat, _my mind shouts_, he's thanking you. Play nice!_

"Just being there. Putting on a show, even though you didn't want to. I need you more than you know." I'll never stop owing my boy with the bread.

"Always, Peet." For the first time in months, we fall asleep fully clothed.

_By my side, _

_By my side—_

_Won't you be by my side?_


	15. Chapter 15: Don't Try to Fool Me

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Don't Try to Fool Me _belongs to Miss Li (the beat is so hot, I can just see Peeta and Katniss getting down to it!).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta has an episode in his sleep and Katniss comforts him as best she can before giving into temptation.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **And here comes the smut; this chapter is pure sex, ladies and gentleman. Enjoy! (And thank you for the reviews and feedback.) The next chapter is smut, too, FWIW. **THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO JENNIBROLAWRENCE19, for reasons. **That is all.

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 15: _Don't Try to Fool Me_

_I'm not a stupid girl—_

_Don't call me stupid—_

_I'm just a hungry girl,_

_And you taste so sweet— _

_And you taste so sweet._

I'm awoken by Peeta's sharp thrashing in bed in the dead of night. Usually Peeta sleeps like the dead—it's not in his nature to wake it. He never thrashes in his nightmares—unlike yours truly—he just stiffens and slowly wakes up, reaching for me in the dark. But tonight (or this morning, depending on how you look at it), he's flailing wildly. The hot air hangs in our bedroom like a wet blanket; it's early November, and this Indian summer has over stayed its welcome. Peeta has kicked off all the covers, but you'd never notice given the oppressive heat. For a few moments, as I wake up, I try to get a good look at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and I can see every vein and muscle on his body throbbing—pulsating—with blood. I creep closer, and put my head on his chest on the place where his heart should be, and it's practically buzzing, beating out of his ribcage. _Oh my God, he's having an episode, he's being hijacked, _I think, and bring my hand to my mouth to try and stifle my cry.

Before my hand reaches my mouth, Peeta's hand has grabbed it and he pulls me roughly to him. Now I can feel every vein and muscle throbbing with hot tracker jacker venom as it courses through his body against mine. He's trying to mumble something through the pain.

"No… you can't take her. LET HER GO… you're a mutt, a fucking mutt. What are you doing with her?" Peeta whispers fiercely to an unknown foe in his sleep. I shirk, knowing his foe is me.

"Peeta," I say quietly, willing myself closer to him. "Not real. It's okay. Not real." But he only grasps my wrists tighter.

"LET HER GO, LET KATNISS GO!" he shouts as his eyes fly open. He looks at me, and I'm paralyzed before him on our pillows. I try to shake my head.

"No, Peeta, not real, Peeta, not real," I stroke his cheek with my free hand as his eyes burn darkly with anger. "Not real." He blinks.

"They're trying to… take you… away from me," he murmurs, trying to pace himself as the venom wreaks havoc on his senses. He breathes deeply, and all I can think to do is press my mouth against his, like I did not so very long ago in the tunnels to pacify him. What he does next shocks me.

_I'm not a weak girl—_

_Don't call me weak, no—_

_I'm just a fragile girl,_

_And you are so strong—_

_Yeah, you are so strong._

Peeta not only responds to my kisses, but he rolls on top of me so that all of his weight is on me, and I'm pinned to the bed between him and a very large erection. He's devouring my mouth like I'm his last meal, his hands knotted in my hair, and he's thrusting against me in a frenetic rhythm. Peeta is being possessive and animalistic and primitive, his commanding movements imparting that which his words (for once) cannot. His hot mouth moves to my neck, and I use the opportunity to speak.

"Peeta, stay with me. Stay with me, I'm real. Real. I'm here, and I'm yours, and they're not taking me away from you. Real, stay with me, real," I beg him, raking my hands across his back and down his shoulders. _I want this—him—so badly, the fire is consuming me from the inside out._ He brings his mouth back to mine, his kisses hot and wet and deep, and he pulls back again. Peeta's eyes are still dark, but now they're dark blue with passion and desire and sex, and I don't care of he's leaving marks all over my body, I want more of him. He's marking me as **his**. I want him inside of me, filling my void. _I want him to feel me. _It's selfish, I know, to feel those urges in this moment. But when I feel all of the blood in my body rushing to my womanhood, and I'm hot and wet and damp against him, and his penis is pressed against my stomach, hard in the best way possible, it's all I can think about. I tremble beneath him.

_Don't try to fool me, no— _

_Don't try to fool me once again—_

_Don't try to fool me, no,_

_Don't try to fool me in the rain._

"Peeta, I'm yours. Show me. _Show me how I'm yours. Make me yours_," I moan, and bring his lips back to mine. Peeta's hands travel eagerly down my body, coming to my legs, and pushing them apart. His erection is freed, and the tumescent tip is pressed against my dripping center. I'm gasping and moaning and mewing, and he's nibbling my neck, and I spread my legs even further for him as I feel his hand wrap around himself and position him at my core. Peeta's manhood is at the hot little bundle of nerves that my hands so love to touch, and I know that he can feel it pulsating against his tip.

"Katniss," he murmurs as his lips crash against mine and he enters me in one fell thrust. It's burning and scorching and searing—like I'm being split in two, but not in a painful way—my womanhood feels like it's on fire, because we're finally coming together the way were always meant to be. I feel my small breasts heaving under him, and the only way I can catch my breath as he joins within me is by crushing my lips to his in a frantic kiss.

_You see I made it, boy—_

_Oh, you see I made it—_

_And I did it, boy,_

_All on my own—_

_Yes, all on my own._

Peeta fills me entirely, as my vaginal muscles constrict and contract with his member. I've never felt more complete or whole as I do in this moment, as Peeta moves within me and on top of me. His tongue in my mouth matches the strokes of his penis, and I roll my hips back to meet his. His mouth never leaves mine as we rock and roll against each other. Peeta's pace evens out and I match his in quick time, as our hips thrust with one another in perfect motion, I know what he needs; I grind the left side of my hip against his as he shifts to his good leg for leverage and he roars into my mouth a primal groan that I'd never could have imagined escaping his lips. I realize that I'm moaning his name every time my walls come down against him, pulling him closer, deeper, harder into me. Something is building deep within my walls, propelled by Peeta inside of me, and the pain is searing; I'm seeking release, and only Peeta has the power to give it to me. His eyes are blue—_so blue in the dark_—like sparkling sapphires in a treasure chest.

Peeta's lips leave mine, and he continues to move within me as he caresses my breasts, sucking each nipple hard in turn, rolling my breasts with his hands, pulling on my hips, and forcing me closer against him. _Mine, mine, mine_ every kiss, each stroke tattoos on my body. _I'm his_. My hand never leaves the back of his head, compelling him to push harder and faster. I feel like my womanhood is drowning him in my tumescence as he throbs deep within my walls. I match each of his strokes with a constriction of my own inner muscles. _He's filling me with joy—his joy, our joy. Joy. I got it. _The only word I can hear him clearly enunciate is "Katniss, Katniss, Katniss."

I realize that the only word I've been saying is "Peeta," as my walls tremble and collapse against Peeta. I growl into his mouth as I feel a release rip through my body. Our bodies are on fire, and all I can see before me is Peeta's blond head worshipping my body. The only person I am aware of at this moment is Peeta—Peeta within me, Peeta around me. Peeta. I'm holding onto him with a vice grip for dear life, and I've never ever felt more connected to another thing in my life. This is what I've—we've—needed.

_So don't judge me, no—_

_No, don't judge me,_

_And don't blame me, boy,_

_For being filled with joy—_

_And I am filled with joy._

Suddenly, his rhythm breaks and becomes erratic. He pants against my collarbone as he struggles to keep himself from slamming into me with reckless abandon, and he brings his mouth back to mind with a ragged sigh. Peeta's breath is hot against mine, and now his lips wouldn't leave mine for anything. "Let go, Peeta," I keen into his mouth, raking my hands across his shoulders. I bring my hips up to meet his in a frenzied dance. He buries himself to the hilt within me, and I feel him spill his hot seed into my core, and Peeta collapses on top of me. He buries his face in my hair, and I can feel his eyelashes against my neck. His breath is steady and even and warm. He turns to me slightly, cradling me against his chest, finally pulling himself out of me; I swear I feel my vagina fighting to keep him locked in.

My grey eyes never leave him, even as his lips come down for a kiss. He smiles, his hair tousled and his skin glistening with sweat.

"Mine," Peeta murmurs quietly against my forehead. I nod. "You're mine." His eyes are so clear blue, like staring into the center of a cool lake.

"Always," I reply, and wrap the blankets around us. A cold breeze comes in through our window; the Indian summer has passed, and an early winter is welcoming itself in.

_Don't try to fool me, no— _

_Don't try to fool me once again—_

_Don't try to fool me, no,_

_Don't try to fool me in the rain._


	16. Chapter 16: Go to Heaven

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Go to Heaven _belongs to The Pierces (check them out!).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **The morning after Katniss and Peeta have sex—how does Peeta handle his reaction to his episode? (Hint: more love-making.)

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **I'm a firm believer that Katniss and Peeta use sex and intimacy as a way to heal and reconnect between Chapter 27 and the Epilogue. I don't think they are using it as an excuse or a crutch—I think the physicality reminds them both that they are alive and that life is a gift worth cherishing and worshipping. Sex allows them to connect on a primal level (or so said Freud). Enjoy! Thank you for the reviews, and keep reading! **This chapter is dedicated to Alaina Downs, because she's so sweet!**

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 16: _Go to Heaven_

_Hey, c'mon,_

_And take off all the clothes _

_That you have on—_

Our room is freezing when I wake up, a sharp winter breeze whipping in through our window from the smoky mountains, but with my body nooked against Peeta's, I'm not cold at all. It stills feels like every part of me is standing at attention as I take Peeta in. He's awake, too, staring at me with those baby blue eyes of his, making knots with my hair. Peeta gives me a sweet smile and kisses the top of my forehead. I go in for a kiss on the lips, but Peeta wants to talk.

He wraps me into his arms, and rocks me back and forth, waking me up.

"Katniss?"

"Mmmph," I mumble against his shoulder. He shivers and trembles. His eyes are full of wanting and questioning, simultaneously.

"I had an episode last night?"

"Real."

"A bad episode?"

"Real and not real. It could have been bad, but it wasn't."

"We had sex?"

"Real." A blush creeps across his cheeks.

"You're mine." Now we've moved onto statements. Good.

I smile inadvertently, "Yes, real, Peeta, always." He gives me a beautiful half-smile.

"I'm yours."

"Most definitely real, Peeta Mellark." Now he gives in to my wishes and kisses me deeply, pushing us back into our pillow fort.

_And make love to me _

_Until the sun, comes up—_

_Or until we decide _

_We are done._

"Is that how you imagined it happening, Katniss?" he whispers against my breasts. I shiver against his touch as he rolls a nipple into his mouth and hand between my legs.

"I don't know, Peeta, I never really thought about it. Not until I was with you," I answer shortly, as his finger reaches the hot button of nerves that his manhood so stimulated last night. I take in a sharp gasp of air as he keeps pressing my nub with his thumb, making gentle circles into my nerves, around my slit.

Peeta smiles wickedly, knowing exactly how my body is going to respond to his. "You never talked about it with your girlfriends, not even Madge or Delly?" He kisses my neck hard, and I can feel the mark rising with his erection. I giggle.

"Nope. My mom gave me the birds and the bees talk—just the basics—and then I was on my own," I tease him back with my own tongue flicking across his chest. He brings our noses together, and gives me a feather-light kiss. I know what he's asking.

"I'm yours, Peeta. You are my first, and only," I sigh, hoping now he'll give me what I want. He gives me the brightest smile.

"Geez, at least I had brothers to explain it to me," he jokes. "But that was nothing like what they had told me. It was so much better, Katniss," Peeta breathes hard and fast as he kisses down my stomach, spreading my legs apart with his fingers as he goes. "You're so wet," he murmurs when he reaches my thighs. I try to shut my legs on his head.

_Hold me _

_Until _

_All the prayers _

_That go to heaven _

_Get an answer._

"Peeta, I think that's mostly yours right now," I smirk. I feel him blush furiously against my thigh. He strokes me carefully with a couple fingers, and my hips unknowingly buck against his hand and I wail as I fall back against the pillows. He just feels so fucking good.

He kisses his way back up to my mouth. "Was it good for you, Katniss?" he asks, his voice full of concern and worry, "Did it hurt?" I shake my head furiously against his kiss. My body responds to his in the most primal way possible.

"It didn't hurt, not even for a moment—but it hurts when you're not inside me, Peeta," and I guide his member to my center. His brow furrows with worry and desire for a second.

"Katniss, did you finish?" he asks seriously as he nestles his tip in my core, against my bundle of nerves. I start moaning wildly. _I'VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE UNTIL NOW, HOW WOULD I KNOW? _I think, _I JUST NEED YOU TO DO WHATEVER IT IS THAT YOU DID TO ME AGAIN AND WE'LL FIGURE IT OUT TOGETHER_.

"Peeta, Peeta, Peeta, I don't know," I groan, begging him with my throbbing nub to enter me again. I smile mischievously. "But you have lots of time to make me come, Peet."

And with that, Peeta kisses me and wraps his arms around my waist as he guides himself into me. This morning, he's taking his time, and I can feel every inch of him enter my canal. I can feel the tip of his head, his slit, every muscle and every vein against my slick walls, and I can feel the power behind his thrust at the base. I'm moaning wildly, and he stifles my moans at first with kisses, and then lowers his head to my chest. He kisses each breast tenderly, cupping them and kneading them and rolling them under his practiced hands. It's all I can do to grab his back when he suckles my breasts and begins to thrust within me, slowly, so that I can feel all of him. _Two can play this game_, I think frantically, planting a kiss on his right cheek.

My core is on fire, but I will my muscles to constrict and tighten around him as Peeta pushes deeper with his. This causes his member to throb with anticipation.

"Oh my fucking God, Katniss, where did you learn how to do that?" Peeta cries, burying his face in my neck and roughly grabbing my hips. I shake my head—I seriously have no idea, but I keep doing it. He digs in, his hilt pressing against my core.

_You are absurd,_

_You say the cutest things _

_I've ever heard._

We've found a comfortable rhythm—not quite slow, not quite fast—it's just deep and even and forceful. He pushes in, and I push back. I pull back, and he's sucked right back in. Now we're just kissing each other, our chests pressed against one another as I arch my back against the bed.

Deep within me, I can feel Peeta hitting a button of nerves, far from the knot at my entrance. It's like his body was truly made for mine, and mine for his. Every time his member hits this spot, I cry out his name, and desperately move my hips against his. Behind my eyes, everything has gone white, and the only sound I'm aware of is Peeta repeating my name, "Katniss." He starts to learn that he's found the place where I come, and he quickens his pace to make more contact with it. My walls crash down, tighter and faster and harder, trying to hold him in place, and soon his strokes are deep and hard and long.

I open my eyes and stare into his, dark blue with desire and concentration.

"Katniss," he howls as I squeak each time he enters me. My walls are throbbing, and I can feel the pressure building, and each time he hits my spot, I squeal his name ever louder. He increases the pace, and his friction, never taking his eyes off me. His member is trembling inside of me each time I pull my muscles taut, and it's driving me towards some crazy edge within that I never knew existed.

"Peeta, Peeta, PEETA!" I whimper against him, bucking wildly, trying to drive him to the place that makes me come as the pressure builds within my core. Peeta holds me hard and fast against his body—he's not letting me go anywhere, except making me come. He's so slick from my tumescence mixing with his, and I know it's hard for him to hold on, but with a final grunt, Peeta pushes himself into me as deep as he can and holds himself against my walls as I let go, my hands tangled in his hair as I lose the ability to breathe as my muscles release and flail helplessly against his tip.

_I don't think that _

_I could take another word—_

_Oh my head_

_Might explode, _

_And I might have to _

_Go to heaven._

"Katniss," he growls gently as he explores my mouth with his hot tongue, and I let my body discover a rhythm with his. Now he needs it faster, and I give him friction by tightening down around his member. He kisses me with each stroke, as if he is trying to keep me with him. I'm beginning to realize that when his strokes and breathing become uneven, he's close to his own precipice. I tighten my slick legs around his hips, and hitch my legs behind his, drawing him ever closer to me. When he buries his face against my neck and whispers my name frantically, and his hips lose rhythm with mine without ever letting me go, I feel his member grow hot within my walls, expand, and explode deep inside me.

"KATNISS!" he moans against me, his sweaty forehead pressing to mine. I smile and reach my lips up to kiss his, and he sighs deeply into my mouth, desperate for air. He slumps against me, and I take all of his dead weight and we sink into the bed and blankets. I rub his back and he breathes against my neck.

"_No," I said,_

"_I do not think that_

_It's all in your head._

_But we may not find out_

_Until we're dead."_

I don't know how long we lie like this, but I lose track of time until I feel Peeta slip out of me and groan slightly. He gives me a sad grin.

"I hate that part," I tell him fervently.

"Me, too," Peeta says, blushing. He rolls onto his side, and I roll into him, my head resting on his left arm and his right arm wrapped tightly around my waist. Just like we slept in the cave.

"Don't leave me today," I whisper into his chest as it rises and falls, "stay with me."

"Always, Katniss," he promises.

"I love you, Peeta," I say shyly, as if sex had changed everything.

"I know, I love you, too, Kat. Always." Nothing had changed his steady, comfortable warmth and strength. If anything, we were stronger.

_Or until the Earth explodes_

_And everybody_

_Goes to heaven._


	17. Chapter 17: I'm an Animal

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _I'm an Animal_ belongs to Neko Case.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss finds her routine between the woods and Victors' Village.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Thanks for the continued review and support, and I'm happy to see that everyone is enjoying the smut! (Sorry it got a little violent for some of you back there, but shit happens.) This chapter is really just about Katniss getting her groove back- she's happy with Peeta, now she just needs to find her own routine in District Twelve. And in case anyone is wondering—yes, I did some research myself to figure out this beekeeping business. Anywho, enjoy this chapter, because the next one is pretty intense!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 27: _I'm an Animal_

_You could say it's my instinct—_

_Yes, I still have one._

Haymitch's backyard was becoming quite the petting zoo; in one corner, Haymitch kept his geese; and in the other, I kept my bees under a broad awning. As promised, Effie had sent my beekeeping supplies, six hive boxes and their combs and a real smoker (not the one from my fireplace that I had been using); she even sent me a beekeeping suit with a veil and gloves and special goggles. The day that everything was delivered, Peeta had left very early to go to the bakery, leaving me to Haymitch and his devices. When he saw that the bees would be protected by an awning, he guffawed.

"Why the hell would bees need a roof? They're inside boxes, for Chrissakes," Haymitch bellowed. "Now look at my geese—my geese don't need a roof. They're happy in their pen, getting lots of fresh air. What makes your bees think they're better than my geese?" He elicited a chuckle out of the deliverymen, but I rolled my eyes.

_There's no time to second-guess it—_

_Yes there are things that I'm still so afraid of._

"Bees don't like water, Haymitch," I replied simply. He raised an eyebrow and took a long drink of the hot cider that Peeta had left us (Haymitch spiced his up, naturally).

"What're they, sweetheart? Afraid?" The moment the words escaped Haymitch's drunk mouth, I knew he felt bad. I narrowed my eyes.

"Yes, they're afraid," I hissed, thinking defensively of Johanna and her fear of the water. _Just one more fucking thing for me to feel guilty about_, I thought morosely. Haymitch shrugged and tottered back inside to his dirty kitchen. He hasn't said a word to me about my sissy bees since that morning.

_But my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun,_

_'Cause it's vain about its mane and will reveal them to no one._

Of course, Effie hadn't sent me any actual bees, so it was up to me to rustle some up in the woods. Well, not literally _rustle_—I didn't want to upset them. But winter was coming fast in the foothills of District Twelve, and settling in for a long nap after an excruciatingly hot fall. Which meant that I didn't have much time to find any intact bee hives as frost quickly burrowed into the forest. Earlier, I'd had some luck chancing upon late-blooming hives deeper in the woods. Sometimes I'd find them in the hollows of trees, sometimes balanced precariously on a delicate branch, bare of leaves. One I found nestled between a mossy rock and what appeared to be the wheel of a Hovercraft. _Nature works in mysterious ways, _I mused. In this way, I came to find six live hives and five queen bees with her minions of workers and drones.

The only real problem I had was getting the bees into their new pre-fab-piece-of-shit homes. The first time I tried to get them out, I tried smoking them into oblivion and cracking the hive open with a hatchet. Blinded by the pain of being stung by dozens of disgruntled bees, I dumped the hive in a box and clamped the cover on as soon as I could. As expected, I came out covered in stings and even my mother's fastest acting creams couldn't fix them faster than Peeta noticed them. He grumbled every day as he smeared the ointment onto my arms and back and neck. Then, out of nowhere, Effie sent me a book on beekeeping by Jan Dzierzon from before the Dark Days, with explicit instructions as to how to coax the bees from one hive to another. (People had ridiculous names back then, too, huh?)

_And I'm an animal, you're an animal, too._

"I didn't ask for this book, Haymitch. Who did? Is Effie really smarter than I give her credit for?" I asked one morning as I prepared the smoker to transfer another colony to a box. Haymitch laughed and poured some bourbon into our coffees.

"Heh, I know that, sweetheart. Peeta asked her to send you the book. Told her that you had no fucking idea what you were doing. And Effie is a smart cookie," Haymitch replied, toasting his mug to me vaguely. "You're about as a bright as a salted slug." _Will I ever stop being in Peeta's debt? _I sighed to myself, but I'm sure Haymitch could read my thoughts at this point.

_Pick up that rock, drink from that lake—_

_I do my best but I'm made of mistakes._

After that, I knew to put the live hive into the box and leave it for several days as the bees left their hive and settled into the combs. Then, I could smoke them out and carefully remove the now empty (save for the honey and wax) hive and rearrange the combs and leave the bees to their own devices. I'd quickly check for a queen—who never really seemed to succumb to the smoke screen, anyway—and I'd leave them be. I did this four more times, and found five queen bees total; the sixth box of bees would just have to do without. In the spring, I planned on releasing them into the wild forest, anyway.

In this short time, my routine became regular—dependable—solid, even. Every morning Peeta would rise, and then we'd make love, and he'd fix breakfast, and then he would leave me until the afternoon. I would drop breakfast off at Haymitch's house, put on a fresh pot of coffee, and then I'd hurtle off into the mountains, into my woods. Dashing, dashing across the meadow that had been seeded in the last days of the Indian summer, dashing into the forest, now a short-lived collage of reds and deep-yellows and oranges and mossy greens.

_Yes, there are still things I'm still quite sure of—_

_I love you this hour, this hour today._

I didn't know what I was running towards, I didn't know what I would find, and I didn't really care—my forest was _mine_ again. Ever since the funeral for Peeta's family by the lake, I felt safe again in the woods—safe in a way I hadn't felt since I was with my father or Gale. But with every sharp, cold, frosty breath of icy air that I draw in from the treetops, I feel a little bit more alive again. The cold burns my lungs in the best way possible. _The Capitol didn't win_, I think, deliciously savoring the words on my lips as I whipp between the trees, hurtling towards the mountains—_my mountains_—as they rise out of Twelve in hues of deep blue and grey and snow-capped peaks. And when I leave the woods and ducked under the fence, I hurtle home—home to my Peeta.

_And heaven will smell like the airport—_

_But I may never get there to prove it,_

_So let's not waste our time thinking how that ain't fair._

Some mornings I spend in the woods, others with Haymitch and the beekeeping. I keep all of my supplies at his house now, in his basement and the apiary shed. He doesn't seem to mind, so long as I clean up after myself and keep a hot pot of coffee or tea going. (Part of me smugly thinks that Haymitch enjoys my broody company.) So this morning, I head over to his house with a hot pot of mint tea with lemon and a cinnamon sugar biscuit with bacon, egg, and cheese (some bacon—Peeta fed most of it to Buttercup this morning). Haymitch never locks his backdoor, so when I slip in and he's sitting there are the kitchen table, almost sober, I'm in such shock that I almost drop the hot pot and his precious breakfast. He has the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. He's not usually this chipper at this hour. _Uh. Oh._

_I'm an animal, you're an animal, too._


	18. Chapter 18: Stretch Out and Wait

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Stretch Out and Wait_ is by The Smiths.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Haymitch and Katniss have a charming heart-to-heart about playing house with Peeta.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Everyone keeps asking, "but why are you avoiding the babies?" I'm not avoiding the babies. I just want Katniss and Peeta to be ready to live under the same roof before they even talk about having kids. So who does Katniss talk to when push comes to shove? Haymitch. Obvi. (I mean, he's like her dad.) It's a really serious conversation! I wanted to write something where Katniss lets her guard and defenses down with someone she trusts who isn't Peeta. (Plus, I mean, I gave the poor boy one helluva an emotional ride, so he deserves a break.) Get through this chapter, and I promise some smutty goodness! Thank you for the amazing reviews, criticisms, and support!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 18: _Stretch Out and Wait_

_All the lies that you make up—_

_What's at the back of your mind? _

_Oh, your face I can see and it's desperately kind—_

_What's at the back of your mind?_

"Hi-ya, sweetheart, good morning," Haymitch says pointedly. I glare at him as I set everything on the counter.

"Why are you awake?" I sneer, pouring him a cup of tea with a generous pour of dark rum. Haymitch takes the cup gratefully, but laughs.

"Someone woke me up early this morning," he muses as he takes a sip of tea. I make a rabbit face at him.

"Who? Your BAC? Could you feel it dropping?" I retort sarcastically. When Haymitch sleeps, he sleeps like the dead—nothing short of an apocalypse can rouse him. He shakes his head.

"Nope, sweetheart. You see, I have some noisy neighbors. Very loud, particularly in the morning. _This_ morning." I freeze in my tracks. _Haymitch could hear Peeta and me having sex? In the morning? He heard us? This morning?_ I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand, wide-eyed with shame and remorse and something that feels dirty, but shouldn't be. I can barely look at him, but he seeks out my wide-eyed stare and smirks.

"You—you can—_hear us_?" I finally choke out, my cheeks turning the color of a cherry in one of Effie's fruity cocktails. Haymitch nods.

"You're not discrete, sweetheart. You and the boy—you've never been quiet. Especially the boy. Sounds like an animal. Didn't know he had_ that_ in him," Haymitch says.

"THIS IS WHY I TOLD PEETA I WANT TO SLEEP WITH THE WINDOWS SHUT!" I shriek, partially because I am embarrassed, partially because I am mortified, partially because, well, frankly, we're being rude. Haymitch gives me a withering cackle.

_Two icy-cold hands conducting the way,_

_It's the Eskimo blood in my veins, _

_Amid concrete and clay, _

_And general decay,_

_Nature must still find a way._

"You want to _fuck_ with the windows shut. So is this a new development?" Haymitch asks between chomps of his sandwich. I nod. He laughs.

"Huh. I could have sworn you two were going at it before now, sweetheart," he continues. I'm literally choking on the air in my lungs as I shake my head. "What? Those nights on the train. That sleeping bag in the cave. The beach." I bite my lip. _Well, I won't deny that something was going on between Peeta and me, those nights when we didn't think anyone could see us…_ I think, my gaze barely able to meet Haymitch's.

Haymitch finished his breakfast in five fell bites. "Sweetheart, Eff told me _all about_ those nights on the train. Don't play me for stupid," he warns. "Why couldn't you put on _that _show for the camera?" I shake my head. I've lost the ability to form words.

"Haymitch, it's different now. Peeta and me will try to be more… discrete. Quieter," I say earnestly. I just want this conversation to be over. I shoot him an ice-bitch glare as I stomp downstairs to the basement and return with several mason jars of honey for distilling. When I return, Haymitch is adding more dark rum to the tea.

I set a large pot of water on the stove and set the burner to bring it to a boil. I immerse the mason jars in the pot, hoping to melt the honey enough to get it out of the jars easily this morning. The silence between Haymitch and me is deafening, but I just focus on boiling my water. Haymitch is still quiet, still drinking more tea, watching me work. Five minutes, ten minutes pass without a single word being spoken. Something catches in my throat—likely steam—and I cough weakly. Haymitch takes this as a sign that I want to talk—the last thing I want to do. I don't want him to lecture me about sex, about getting pregnant, about anything—I just want him to get drunk and say mean things about other people, like he usually does.

_So ignore all the codes of the day—_

_Let your juvenile impulses sway _

_This way and that way,_

_This way, that way._

_God, how sex implores you _

_To let yourself lose yourself!_

"What's changed between you and the boy, sweetheart?" Haymitch says delicately as I take out the mason jars with tongs and set them on the counter. I turn off the burner, and pour the hot water out into the sink, choosing my words very carefully. I turn around, grab the counter behind me, and look Haymitch straight in his drunk face.

"We're together now, Haymitch," I reply. _That's it? That's the fucking best you can come up with?_ I think. "I mean, we've been together for such a long time, that it just feels… right."

Haymitch laughs. "Of course sex feels right. Why else would we do it?" I'm repulsed by his answer. I angrily put my hands on my hips.

"We're just finally ready to share that part of our lives with each other now, okay?" I shout defensively, before shoving my hands back into the oven mitts and begin opening the mason jars of warm honey, pouring them into the steaming pot. I crank the burner up to high, the flames licking high on the pot. Haymitch is tapping the table with his Victor's ring.

"And you weren't ready before because…?" he says, intimating with his hands. I shake my head.

"We've been through a lot together, and we just feel like we can really trust each other now, alright?" I say, trying to focus on melting my honey, trying to focus on picking out the impurities in this batch. The pollens, the bits of wood, the bits of wax—it's all I can do to avoid Haymitch's gaze.

"Dr. Aurelius will be _very_ interested to hear this, sweetheart," Haymitch ruminates. Now it's my turn to laugh.

"Oh, yeah, why? So he can lecture me and Peeta on taking things too fast?" I chortle darkly. _If they even THINK of taking Peeta from me, I'll gut them all, one by one—like a dead squirrel,_ I vow under my breath. The honey is melting evenly.

Haymitch shakes his head. "No, Dr. Aurelius thinks you were taking it too slow. There's a physical component to healing, Katniss. Didn't your mother teach you that?" I let out an exasperated sigh at that one.

_Stretch out and wait, _

_Stretch out and wait,_

_Let your puny body, lie down, lie down— _

_As we lie, you say, _

_(As we lie, you say)_

_Stretch out and ... _

_Stretch out and wait,_

_Stretch out and wait,_

_Let your puny body lie down, lie down._

"Katniss, sweetheart, you and Peeta are teenagers. This is normal. I could care less if you're fucking like rabbits in the bushes. I'm just worried about that whole emotional business." _The distinction between this and that is a cold one, _I muse to myself.

I set another large pot on the stove and cover it with a cheesecloth. "Haymitch, Peeta and I are finally ready to take that last step."

"And what step is that, sweetheart? Is this more than sex?" Haymitch asks quietly as I pour the honey from the one pot into the other one slowly as it seeps through the cheesecloth. I make a face at Haymitch.

"Of course it is," I say just as quietly. "I trust him, Haymitch. He never meant to abandon me. He came back to me. He is the only person who makes me feel safe. He's the only person who makes me feel loved." Haymitch nods, because Haymitch is the only person who knows how I love Peeta, and how Peeta loves me. And Haymitch loves Peeta, too. And yet, Haymitch raises an eyebrow at me.

"Katniss, you don't understand. I know it's fun, playing house. Been there, done that. But is there more to it?" he asks bluntly, causing me to suddenly drop the now empty pot on the stove with a clang. "Do you know what you're fucking doing, Katniss Everdeen, playing house with that boy?" Haymitch hisses angrily. _NO, I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA._ "Are you playing him?"

"Playing house?" I scoff. _Is that what we're doing?_ My drawer of clothes in his dresser. My stuff in his bathroom. The Plant book and Tribute book that we now keep in his art studio. The fact that Buttercup follows me over and makes himself at home. We make love every morning and every night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. _Playing house? That sounds so… trite. So ordinary._ I don't realize that tears are rolling down my cheeks until Haymitch sighs and hands me a handkerchief.

_As we lie, you say: _

_Will the world end in the nighttime? _

_(I really don't know.) _

_Or will the world end in the daytime? _

_(I really don't know.)_

"We're not just… playing house," I croak out, turning into Haymitch's open arms. "And I'm not playing him. It's just… all of these years pretending that I don't need anybody to survive, it's bullshit. I need him. I need Peeta." I'm ugly sobbing all over Haymitch, and I don't even care. "For years, even before my father died, I just built up all these walls and defenses inside, because I was never going to let anyone in—except the boy with the bread, he got in. And he didn't mean to, but he chipped away at those barriers, and he _crept up on me_, and now there is NOTHING left, except _our_ house, _our_ family. I've—" Haymitch just strokes my hair, the same way my father did when I was upset as a little girl. "Haymitch, I've let him in, because as afraid as I am to admit that I love him, I'm just as afraid that I'll lose him again. That's how I've felt since the first Games. So now that he's in, he's gotten inside of me in every way possible, I just can't let him go now." I let out a gut-wrenching sob into Haymitch's shoulder. _The possibility—the very thought—of losing Peeta again reduces me to ashes_.

"I know, sweetheart," Haymitch answers me quietly. "I'm just worried. I'm always worried about the two of you. You can't let him go again, you understand? Do you know what that would do to him?" I nod, wiping my nose on his sweater, like a tiny child. "It would _destroy _Peeta, Katniss. I won't let you do that. I won't let you do that to him, or yourself. You hear me?" I nod.

"It would kill me first, Haymitch," I say weakly, regaining my breath. Haymitch's grey Seam eyes seem to reflect mine.

_And is there any point ever having children? _

_Oh, I don't know—_

_What I do know is we're here and it's now._

"Peeta will never leave you, Katniss," Haymitch responds, rubbing my back, _just like my father did so many years ago_. "That boy fought hell and high water to come back to you time and time again. He's never leaving you."

"I fought for him, too, Haymitch," I retort, a smile slipping across my face. Haymitch nods in agreement.

"But this playing house shit, knock it off. Get your shit together. Give the boy what he wants—_finally_—got it, sweetheart?" Haymitch suddenly utters. _Ship up or ship out_, I think to myself. _Nut up or shut up_. I nod.

I turn back to the stove, my honey boiling away. I throw away the first cheesecloth, and put another clean pot on the stove, cover it with a cloth, and pour the hot honey through it again. This honey is a lighter amber color, almost the color of a honeysuckle. It smells like early spring and wet rain.

"Katniss!" Haymitch barks, "I'm not done with you. Why are you Seam kids so easily distracted by shiny, pretty things?" I bite my bottom lip. Now Haymitch is going to ask the hard questions.

_So... stretch out and wait,_

_Stretch out and wait._

_There is no debate, no debate, no debate._

"Are you going to give the boy what he wants?"

"Yes."

"What does he want, sweetheart?" _WHY IS HAYMITCH ASKING ME THESE FUCKING REPETITIVE QUESTIONS?_

"A FAMILY, HAYMITCH, THE SAME THING I WANT—FAMILY. GODDAMMIT," I explode. "You. Me. Him. That's all that's left." Haymitch nods.

"Very good, sweetheart. So you're going to be a little family. Do you know what sex leads to, hmm?" Haymitch says, holding my gaze.

"_Children_," I utter, under my breath so quietly that I don't think Haymitch hears me, but he does.

"Babies, very good, sweetheart. Are you willing to give him children? Have you considered that?"

I'm taken aback for a moment, because Haymitch has never discussed children with me. I'd saved those charming conversations for Gale and Peeta, and sometimes, Prim.

"I have. Of course, I have. Even if someone doesn't have kids, of course they think about it, all the time," I reply defensively.

"It's well-known that you don't want kids, Katniss. Have you changed your tune?" Haymitch spits. I've bitten my bottom lip raw.

"It has with Peeta, Haymitch. He should be a parent. And we'll be fine, together. His children are different. _Our _children are different," I answer shyly. _Always breaking the rules for this boy, Katniss…_

_How can you consciously contemplate _

_When there's no debate, no debate?_

Haymitch pours himself a large glass of dark rum into one of my empty, clean mason jars.

"So you'll give him children?"

"Eventually."

"Does he know this?"

"I dunno, probably, you said it best: playing house leads to babies," I hiss as a stir my honeysuckle honey. "Just not right now! We're not done… healing. We're not whole yet." _We might never be whole_. "We need to grow up." _I want Peeta to myself for awhile_, I think selfishly. "Besides, I never said I _wouldn't _have _his_ kids…"

Haymitch chuckles drunkenly, slowly. "You don't have to want them right now, Katniss. So long as he knows you're thinking about them and you're not entirely opposed to them, you'll make him the happiest man in the world. It's okay to be young. It's okay to shirk responsibility. After what you two went through, it's only fair that you enjoy these short years." Haymitch Abernathy, a fucking sage. I really have nothing to say to him as I run the honey through another cheesecloth and bring it to a boil one last time.

I set out clean mason jars, cover them with cheesecloths, and ladle the boiling honey into each one. I catch a glimpse of myself in Haymitch's dirty window—my eyes are swollen, and my bottom lip is a bloody mess. As the honey cools down slightly, I scrub the pots and pans, leaving Haymitch's kitchen far cleaner than it was when I arrived. I screw the jar tops on, pushing the mason jars back against the counter, near the window to cool down. It's a little after noon, and I need to head to the bakery. Haymitch knows it's time for me to be off.

"Better get a move on, sweetheart. Lover Boy is expecting you," Haymitch sneers. I punch his shoulder in jest.

"Yeah, well, you have a phone call to make to the Capitol. I hear Effie Trinket has unusual lunchtime requests," I quip back, skipping out the door. Haymitch just laughs.

_Stretch out and wait,_

_Stretch out and wait, _

_Stretch out and wait, _

_Wait._


	19. Chapter 19: In My Time of Need

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer**: _The Hunger Games_ belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees_ belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _In My Time of Need_ belongs to Ryan Adams.

**Thanks to**: **SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships:** Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary**: Katniss has a terrible nightmare and Peeta tries to remind her of the good in life.

**Rating**: **M** for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N**: Thank you for the reviews and support and constructive criticism! (There is a lot more to this story now that Peeta and Katniss have done the deed, so don't worry—more drama to come!) I want to talk more about Katniss' nightmares and Haymitch's game to keep them at bay. Naturally, this makes me think about Finnick and his "Real, Not Real" strategy with Annie, and later, Peeta. (Oh my God, Annie is to Peeta as Finnick is to Katniss, and it makes my ovaries explode.) Katniss is finding a routine, but that won't stop the nightmares from visiting their bed, so I want to show how Peeta might help her. Enjoy!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 19: _In My Time of Need_

_Will you comfort me in my time of need?_

_Can you take away the pain of hurtful deeds?_

_'Cause when we need it most there's no rain at all._

I look behind me to my left, and there's nothing but a labyrinth of sewers and tunnels and Capitol filth. The stench of roses and blood are overwhelming. _I'm seventeen, roses shouldn't bother me this much_, I think to myself as I pull myself through one manhole after another. It's all familiar—too familiar—but there's not a soul with me, and it's too dark, there's no nightlock on my shoulder. _You're all alone, they've all abandoned you—seen you for what you really are. Nothing special. Just a mean little girl_. I crouch in the nook where one tunnel meets another and bury my face in my hands. But my hands are bleeding—like my fingernails have been ripped out—and all I can smell is blood and roses and rot. I peer down the nearest manhole, and I see Finnick (Finnick!) running towards me, reaching for the ladder with his hands.

"FINNICK!" I squeal, making a beeline for the manhole, reaching for him in the abject darkness. Something—or rather someone, Gale maybe—is holding me back by the ankle. All I can make out is the glow of his bronze hair, but that's enough for me.

"Katniss! Katniss!" Finnick cries, desperately reaching for my hand. "KATNISS! PLEASE DON'T LET GO!" But it's too late—my bloodied hands can't hold onto him, and he's pulled away by lizard-mutts, feeding on his golden flesh. I'm deaf, but all I can hear is the sound of their teeth on his flesh and bones.

"KATNISS!" Finnick screams, and now he sounds like one of those lizard-mutts, hissing my name. "KATNISS! STOP THEM! I'M BEGGING YOU! KATNISS, PLEASE! THEY'RE EATING ME ALIVE! ANNIE—ANNIE—" I'm screaming, my hands dripping with hot, wet blood that smells like roses, and I'm paralyzed. The next thing I see is a lizard-mutt tackling Peeta in the next tunnel over, and I feel my weak, little body propel itself down the ladder. _I won't save Finnick, but I'll save Peeta?_ I think. _Some friend, I am_.

"PEETA!" I scream, thrashing against the lizard-mutts as they sink their fangs into my burned flesh. But it's too late. Peeta just lies there, glassy-eyed, wailing, staring at me as they devour him from the feet up. All I can hear is his voice in my good ear, "KATNISS! KATNISS! KATNISS!" I make a desperate attempt to reach him—

_And the dust just settles right there on the feed—_

_Will you say to me, "A little rain's gonna come"_

_When the sky can't offer none to me?_

_'Cause I will come for you_

_When my days are through._

I open my eyes, one grey Seam eye at a time, and find Peeta's blue, his hands clasping my wrists, his body pinning me against his. Instinctively, I press my head to the place where his heart should be—albeit it's beating fast than usual. My skin is cold and wet and clammy against his warmth, tangled in our sheets.

"Katniss, not real, baby, it's a nightmare—not real," Peeta murmurs in my ear, nuzzling my neck. I have to touch every inch of his chest after he frees my hands to make sure. He's smiling as I press his flesh, tracing each scar on his chest and stomach and shoulders with my fingers. I bury my face against him, emitting a weak cry against his skin as I take him in. _He's alive! _I think wondrously.

_And I'll let your smile just off and carry me,_

_'Cause when the calm comes down,_

_I take the truck on into town_

_And buy whatever we can't seem to grow._

_(I work these hands to bleed cause I got mouths to feed.)_

"Baby, it was just a nightmare, a really bad nightmare," he coos as he rocks me against him. I'm trying to speak, and my words are just coming out as croaks. He smells wonderful, like cinnamon and dill and rising yeast.

"F—F—Finnick!" I finally get out, and bury my face in his golden chest hair. I feel Peeta's breath hitch in his lungs as he presses me closer, and I think I hear him let out muffled sob, but he holds me tighter, pulling my thighs into his. "Peeta, I let Finnick go—it's all my fault!" I sob as his fingers weave themselves into my hair. He shakes quietly against me.

"No, Katniss, not real. I was there. Finnick knew what he was doing. There was nothing we could do, baby," Peeta says reassuringly. I feel myself kick against him, but he holds me tight. "Nothing," he says into my messy hair. I raise my head up, under his chin, and hold his gaze.

"But, Peeta—they got you, too—they took you from me, made me watch—" I cry as his lips find mine and cut off my voice, his lips telling me that they most certainly didn't make me watch him die.

"Not real, Kat. I'm here, you're in my arms, you can feel every last bit of me," Peeta hums into my cheek, "It was a nightmare." I try to nod bravely for him, but just burst into tears at the thought of mutts and lost children. He smiles so kindly, kisses my tears away, and holds my legs fast against his. His erection is pressing against my shaking thighs, and I know it's the last thing I should be thinking about, but he's the _only_ thing I can think about in this blurry moment.

"Peeta, Peeta, Peeta," I whisper, "I'll never let you go." He nods into my kiss, sitting up and pulling me into his lap in one fell swoop. _He's so beautiful in the moonlight_, I think, _how can he really be all mine?_

"Katniss," he says huskily. I push myself further into his hot kisses. _I want to forget_. It's his turn to shake his head. "Katniss, you need to think of all of the acts of kindness that Finnick did, okay?" The same game Haymitch played with me in District Thirteen when I wanted Peeta and couldn't have him and they had to come up with a way to get me to be their mockingjay without having a panic attack. Of course Haymitch would tell Peeta. But I don't want to tell Peeta—I want to kiss him and have him inside of me and make me whole again and take the nightmares away, when he fills me to the brim. "Katniss, real," he murmurs into my collarbone. I feel burning tears escape my eyes as I meet Peeta's gaze and he nods solemnly.

_And I got fifteen dollars hid above the stove;_

_Will you say to me, "A little rain's gonna come"_

_When the sky can't offer none to me?_

_'Cause I will come for you_

_When my days are through._

I take a deep breath. "Finnick resuscitated you, after you hit the force field." Peeta chuckles.

"I can always count on you to think of the worst-case scenario, Katniss," Peeta says with a quick grin. I bite my lip.

"Finnick taught me how to _really_ put sugar in my tea," Peeta suggests lightly, and I giggle. "_Do you find this… distracting, Katniss?_"

"He wore that hideous bracelet that Effie designed with Cinna," I sigh, "letting us know he was an ally." Peeta nods hard, tears growing in his eyes.

"Finnick is the one who really got Jo on our side," Peeta whispers. He's making knots with my loose hair now.

"He taught me how to make knots, to keep me distracted," I sob, feeling a hot mess.

"He made Annie happy," Peeta mutters, almost to himself, "gave her a little piece of him in Finn." I choke back tears, thinking of their beautiful baby boy with his twinkling sea-green eyes and messy chestnut hair. _I suddenly think of a baby—my baby—with Peeta's twinkling blue eyes._ I press my chest harder against Peeta's, forcing us both back against the headboard.

"Finnick sacrificed himself for us, Peeta, so that we could live and make it," I mumble against Peeta's lips, now pressed full against my own.

"He gave us the 'Real, Not Real,' game, Kat. He saved us—the way he saved Annie," Peeta mumbles, tightening his grip around me. "What do you need, Katniss? What will make you feel better?" Peeta moans into my mouth.

I pull his broad shoulders, wet with my tears, against me. "Peeta, the only man I need is you. You're the only person who makes me feel better, who keeps the nightmares away, who makes me feel whole—" And his lips cut my words off with his tongue. Peeta holds my tailbone fast against his pelvis, and I can feel him rise against me.

"I need you, too, Katniss," Peeta says against my skin as he peppers kisses down my neck, cupping my breasts with his hands as they move up my body, pulling me closer into him in the moonlight. We're still sitting up, and I can see every muscle in his neck and shoulders and back move as he lowers his mouth to my breast, drawing the nipple in, and sucking hard. He takes a moment to look up at me with his blue eyes though his golden lashes, and I grow wet at my center as he flicks his tongue against my nipple ever so lightly. "I'm not going to let you go," he murmurs, and kisses his way over to my other breast, my hands cradling his head in the silvery light. This time his mouth lingers hard on the nipple, his teeth nipping gently, and then his tongue pulls my breast into his mouth and suckles with fervor. I let my head roll back and moan, clutching his blond head to my chest as his member rises into my core.

_And I'll let your smile just off and carry me—_

_'Cause it ain't like it was on back in those days,_

_When everyone would offer up a hand._

_These old bones are worn—_

_I've grown tiresome._

His hands leave my breasts, my hair scattered across my chest, and find themselves between my damp legs. On hand finds his way to my tailbone, to rest itself where my back meets my hips, the other dips between my legs, teasing its way up.

"Peeta," I gasp, begging him for something only he could give me. Peeta's only answer is to kiss me more deeply, knowing I'll hold myself to him for dear life. His hand is pressed flush against my thigh, and I twitch in anticipation for him to do something more. Peeta's hand slowly turns upward and cups my womanhood and curls in his palm. I mew weakly into his mouth, pushing my hips down to his hands, knowing that I'm already wet enough for it to be dripping into his palm.

"Katniss," he moans into my neck loudly as I buck my hips against his hand impatiently. The only word I ever hear him really clearly enunciate when we have sex is my name—"Katniss."

He brings his hand up, and a finger traces a circle around my entrance, already throbbing with anticipation. It slips in with little notice—I'm so wet—until he finds my nub, and he rolls it between his thumb and index finder. I let out what I regard as a screech until Peeta stops my sounds with his mouth. His finger enters me, pumping in and out, and I rip my mouth back and scream, and Peeta presses his mouth back against mine, inserting another finger, curling them within me, and I'm clawing his back. Peeta hesitates, and thrusts a third finger into me, feeling my great need against him as my walls throb and squeeze against him.

My hand leaves his back, and it weaves its way down his mapped skin to his manhood, and I hold it in my hot little hands, and now it's his turn to beg as my hand slips up and down his shaft.

_And I know my time is surely gonna come—_

_Will you comfort me in my time of need?_

_Can you take away the pain of hurtful deeds?_

_'Cause I will comfort you when my days are through._

"Katniss," Peeta growls against my mouth, "please, please, please…" He's grown large and turgid in my hands, and in one movement, he's entered me, and I press myself against his chest, to his neck, winding my hands into his hair. I can feel his penis expand inside of me. It's all I can do to moan and buck my hips back against him; I wrap my legs around him higher, to give him more leverage. Peeta's mouth is everywhere, sucking at my skin, giving me hot, wet, sloppy kisses that will leave marks in the morning.

We're still sitting up, and I'm captive in his lap. He pushes up, and I push back. He thrusts forward, and I curl back. He's latched onto my left nipple, sucking for dear life, moaning my name into my skin. Peeta is hitting a particularly sensitive angle, making my walls quiver with every movement. I love making love with Peeta in this position, sitting up, me nooked into his lap, every possible bit of skin touching, my strong legs wrapped around his waist. I like it because from here, we're breathing the same breath between kisses, and I can look into his eyes, and I can feel every inch of him moving within me. _Every. Inch_. I've never felt more intimate or close to Peeta, let alone another person in my entire life. I arch back, and Peeta brings his red mouth to my swollen nipples, looking up at me with those big blue eyes between his golden lashes. He pumps in and out of me—_warm, steady, even_.

_And I'll let your smile just off and carry me;_

_Lord, we married young and stayed where we came from,_

_And gave those children everything we had._

_Will you stay with me in my time of need?_

"Peeta," I wail meekly. _I'm not going to last much longer, _I mouth into his neck. My poor hips can't keep pace with his, and suddenly, Peeta pushes me backwards onto our bed, and drives into me with such force that I lose the ability to make coherent sounds. He pounds into me with reckless abandon, like an animal, without rhyme or reason, but his purpose is clear. _He's making me his, he's filling me, he's making me whole, he's chasing he darkness out_. His hips force me down, pushing against me with such skill, and it's all I can do to buck into him. Peeta's red lips are buried into my neck, and I can feel his teeth nipping me and his member reaches my innermost core. I arch my back as I flex against him as he finishes, emptying within me, and collapsing promptly on top of me.

"Stay with me?" I breathe heavily against his hair.

"Always," Peeta mumbles into my loose waves. "You're mine." _Finnick must have taught him more than I realized._ The rest of my sleep is free of nightmares.

_Though it seems we had such little time for us—_

_Will you say to me, "A little rain's gonna come,"_

_When the sky can't offer none to me._

_'Cause I will come for you_

_When my days are through._

_And I'll let your smile just off and carry me..._


	20. Chapter 20: Tiny Light

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Tiny Light_ belongs to Grace Potter & the Nocturnals (UGH, I ABSOLUTELY LOVE HER).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss calls Annie to talk about Finnick and relationship issues.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: ** Heh, I'm glad that everyone is enjoying the sex! YAY SEX! But not every chapter can be about sex, kids! This chapter is both serious and light-hearted, because we all know that Peeta, Katniss, and Annie all keenly feel the loss of Finnick. Some of you have also told me that Katniss needs more girlfriends, and I agree wholeheartedly! So here is my attempt at a friendship between Katniss and Annie. Thanks for the reviews, comments, and criticisms—big moves are coming in the next chapter! Enjoy!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 20: _Tiny Light_

_What will come of us today?_

_What we need we cannot say._

_It's been a long, long time since I've been so afraid._

_As we all fall down its hard to see a brighter day but..._

I don't want Peeta to leave for the bakery the next morning; I cry and cling and hold him down to me until we make love again, and I lay weakly in bed as he showers. Those nightmares—where I'm losing someone I know that I love, when I think that I could have done more to save them—take the most out of me. He kisses me deeply—so deeply—before he leaves, and promises to be home sooner rather than later. I fall asleep again within our pillow fort shortly after he leaves, simply exhausted from feeling all the feelings. I sleep until lunchtime, and I force myself to swing my feet and get out of bed.

The only person I want to talk to today (except Peeta) is on the other side of Panem. I tremble as I pull on a sweat suit—will she even answer the phone? Will she be as immersed in her sorrows as I am? Because it was one year ago today, in the depths of November, that we lost Finnick in the tunnels, and the only person I want (besides Peeta) is Annie. I brew myself a strong pot of tea with honey and lemon before I pick up the phone. _I don't want to bother her, I just want to hear her voice—and know that she's still among the land of the living._ My fingers shake as I dial her number, and I don't breathe as each ring cracks across the telephone.

_I see a tiny light like a flashbulb sparkle in the night,_

_I see a tiny light telling everyone to hold on tight._

"Hello?" Annie's quiet voice chirps across the phone, and I inadvertently sigh. "Hey, Katniss," she says, and I can see the smile creeping across her cheeks.

"Annie, hey," I breathe, "how are you?" She giggles a little, and I can see her staring into space.

"I've been better, Katniss," she says finally, her voice giving out at the end. I cough awkwardly.

"How's Finn?" I ask cheerily. "Is he swimming yet?" (I know nothing about babies.) Annie laughs out loud.

"Katniss, he's only seven months old, I'm happy he can even crawl," Annie replies, her voice full of happiness yet breaking with tears. "I just weaned him."

"He's a beautiful little boy, Annie, we should all be so lucky," I say softly. She sniffles.

"I am lucky. Finn is the only person I have left, Katniss." Annie's voice cracks, and I pour myself another up of tea.

_What will come of all our pride?_

_This house of stone has crumbled from the inside._

_It's been a long, long war—_

_Now the battle is drawing near._

_Closer and closer 'till it whispers in my ear._

"Annie? I miss Finnick. Can we… talk about him?" I ask shyly. I hear her dangly earrings clink against the phone as she says yes, and I let out a deep sigh of relief.

Annie and I talk—for hours, it seems—about Finnick and Peeta and baby Finn. I tell her about how grateful Peeta and I are for the "Real, Not Real" game, and I can see her smile from across the country. She tells me how baby Finn's eyes are deep and bright and green—just like his daddy's—and how twinkly his laugh is. Apparently, baby Finn is quite the lady killer—just like his father. And he's trying to learn how to stand up—not quite walking, not quite swimming yet. I never got to know Annie as well as I should have in Thirteen, so I feel like we're making up for lost time, in a sad way. But Annie is smart, she's intuitive. _She's not so crazy, just a little off_.

"Katniss, what's on your mind" she broaches delicately. I bite my lip, and I know she can feel it through the phone.

"Annie, how did Finnick know that you… appreciated him?" I ask, waiting for the worst.

Annie's laugh twinkles, just like baby Finn's. "Katniss, it's the little things. What does Peeta love, excluding you?" I don't even think twice.

_I see a tiny light like a flashbulb sparkle in the night,_

_I see a tiny light telling everyone to hold on tight…_

"Sex!" I practically shout, and Annie laughs even harder. _Awkward_, I think, _why would I say that aloud?_

"And?" she teases, sussing an answer out of me.

"Dinner?" I answer thoughtlessly. _My mother always said the way to a man was through his stomach, after all_, I surmise. Annie chuckles.

"Here, I'll tell you what: make him one of Finnick's favorite dinners," Annie answers, "I'll send you the recipe. It's easy. You can use your hands. He'll love it." And I believe her, whole-heartedly—she and Peeta had shared so much in the Capitol and Thirteen. Their friendship was special—something I could never relate to.

"Katniss, why do you always think Peeta is so complicated?" Annie asks shyly, and I can see her playing with her hair. I bite my tongue.

_Bring me back the streets of gold,_

_Give me something warm to hold,_

_Give me love and only love_

_And we will see it shining from above._

"I dunno, Annie, it's the way his eyes get deep and mysterious when he paints, when he's baking, when he reads a good book—when he's immersed in his imagination," I reply delicately. Annie nods against the phone.

"Finnick had the same expression. Like there was a whole other world in his head. But I know that I was a part of it, of his dream-world," Annie says firmly. Now it's my turn to nod.

"I'm sure I'm a part of Peeta's world, Annie. I just wish that I could show him how much I love him. I'm such a brat," I reply flatly. It's true; I never do anything nice or extraordinary for Peeta. It's always him making the little gestures, showing me how much he loves me.

Anne laughs her musical laugh, breaking my ennui. "Katniss, just be nice. Just make him dinner. Make him Finnick's favorite; I know how much he wanted to try it."

_I see a tiny light like a flashbulb sparkle in the night._

_I see a tiny light telling everyone to hold on tight._

_I see a tiny light like a flashbulb sparkle in the night._

_I see a tiny light telling everyone to hold on tight._

I smile and swallow my tears. "Okay. And I can't fuck it up?" Annie laughs, shaking her earrings against the phone.

"No, it's fool-proof, Katniss," she says distantly; I can hear baby Finn awakening in the background, wailing, thrashing his tiny hands against his crib. "I need to go, Katniss."

"I know, Annie. Thanks. Thanks for talking to me… about Finnick. I miss him. Not the way you miss him, but I miss him," I cry, wiping my tears on my sleeve. Annie sniffles.

"Finnick loved you, Katniss. The way Peeta loves me. The way I love you," Annie says in her sing-song voice as we get ready to say good bye. "Never forget that you are loved." I nod.

"Annie, I feel selfish talking to you about Peeta when it's Finnick who's gone," I let out quietly.

"It's okay, Katniss. Finnick heard enough people talking about him for a lifetime. I know that you and Peeta love him, and that helps me get by. And I still love you," Annie replies stoically.

"I love you, too, Annie. Send more pictures, okay?" I gurgle, hanging up the phone before Peeta barges in with a big smile and an armful of bread.

_I see a tiny light—but it's not going to shine without a fight._


	21. Chapter 21: Be Here to Love Me

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Be Here to Love Me_ belongs to Norah Jones.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss tries to do something nice for Peeta, and they share a special anniversary dinner, with a big question at the end.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Thanks for the review and comments and favorites! I'm flattered and blushing and all that jazz. How much more do we have to this tale? A bunch. Some of you are asking, "Where is Gale?" He is hiding (because Peeta or Katniss might kill him.) "Where is Johanna? Where is Annie? Where is Mrs. Everdeen?" In short, I'm not sure how many of them A) are able (allowed) to travel to Twelve; and B) how much they actually want to come. For now, phone calls and letters will have to suffice. This chapter is about a big step for Peeta and Katniss, so I just want to focus on them for a little while. I think this chapter's a good one—enjoy! (YAY FOOD PORN! The second best kind of porn in THG!)

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 21: _Be Here to Love Me_

_Your eyes seek conclusion_

_In all this confusion of mine._

_Though you and I both know_

_It's only the warm glow of wine._

I hate cooking. I loathe cooking. There's a reason I leave it to Peeta; I suck at it. If it's not rabbit stew or grilling meat, I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Even adding a simple dressing to salad reduces me to angry tears. Which is why I keep dinner hearty and simple; it's not just because Peeta is a meat and potatoes kind of man, but rather because I'm kitchen-challenged_. I fucking suck at being domestic_, I think as I mix the rice with the ground beef. _THIS DOMESTIC SHIT IT NOT MY JAM._

A few weeks ago, Annie had sent me Finnick's favorite recipe: stuffed peppers. The day the mail came, I pried Annie's letter from Peeta's hot hands.

"MINE!" I proclaimed, holding it tight. Peeta and Buttercup looked at me as if I had lost my fucking mind.

"Girl stuff?" Peeta broached, and I nodded. He didn't ask any questions after that, but I knew he was jealous that Annie had written to me—and only me—and quizzical as to why I wouldn't share. The letter was just her recipe and explanation that this recipe had been in her family for ages, and came from a land far, far way, across an ocean, and that Finnick loved it because it was so different than their usual fare in Four. But this recipe, the stuffed papers, it was something I could handle. I could find everything at the market at home: peppers, onions, garlic, rice, ground sausage, cheese, tomatoes, herbs. (And breadcrumbs, which I had in abundance, obviously.)

_That's got you to feeling this way,_

_But I don't care—_

_I want you to stay _

_And hold me and tell me _

_You'll be here to love me today._

But now as I stand sweating at the counter, mixing the cooked rice and sausage and tomatoes and herbs together with my hands, I was panicking. I drenched in sweat from being stuck in a hot kitchen and sticky with olive oil.

_This was supposed to be easy! Relaxing! _I think as I mash everything together between my fingers. The feel of meat between my fingers is particularly pleasant. It's vaguely easy and familiar and reassuring, and his kitchen smells wonderful as I cook the tomatoes and onions and garlic, then adding the sausage. But when I add the rice to everything, and the mixture seems to explode in the bowl, I start freaking out. _Something has to be wrong! _I panic, _there's too much stuffing!_ I frantically feed some of the stuffing to Buttercup, who seems to like it. I'd call Haymitch, but he's gone to the Capitol on "official business" (i.e. seeing Effie), and I can't call Annie, because Finn is still napping.

But everything smells okay, in Peeta's kitchen. Good, even. And since Buttercup hasn't yacked all over my feet on Peeta's immaculate kitchen floor, I assume it's okay to stuff the bell peppers with the stuffing. I stuff away, and as I'm spooning the tomato sauce over the tops, Peeta barges in the front door. His kitchen is an abject disaster, and he's going to throw a shit-fit.

"Shit!" I cry, inadvertently, slamming my hand over my mouth. "Fuck! You aren't supposed to be home yet!" I yell at him, hoping to keep Peeta at bay in the living room so that I can finish his surprise dinner. I hear Peeta sigh, and start barging towards the kitchen.

His face is red at the door. "KATNISS!" I try to block his way, but he's too big and too angry and pushes in anyway. I'm blushing and shirking and generally feeling terrible as he drops his bags on the table. He rounds on me. I push myself against him.

"Peeta, you can't be in here!" I shriek, attempting to push him though the door again. His entire body hardens. _Fuck, now I've gone and done it, _I think. He pulls away from me.

_Children are dancin', _

_The gamblers are chancin' their all._

_The window's accusing the door of abusing the wall _

_But who cares what the night watchmen say?_

"KATNISS! THIS IS MY HOUSE—GOT IT—MY HOUSE! AND I HAVE EVERY GODDAMN RIGHT TO BE IN MY OWN FUCKING KITCHEN AFTER THE DAY I'VE HAD!" Peeta roars, slamming his fists down on the table. But then his eyes find mine, and he sees my lip trembling.

"Kat, I'm sorry for yelling at you like that, for acting like an animal. I just had a bad day, that's all. A mixer broke, flour everywhere…," he says, apologizing, kissing me hard and fast and wet. I wrap my hands weakly around his neck.

"S'okay, Peet," I murmur as his heartbeat settles down. "I'm just… I'm making you a special dinner, okay?" He presses his forehead against mine. "Let me make it up to you."

"Really? You never make 'special' dinner," Peeta giggles, squeezing my hip. I nod, staring into his cerulean eyes. I attempt to compose myself (which is no small task in his embrace).

"Yes, really. Will you go a build a fire? For later?" I ask, playing with his neck beard. He nods and smiles.

"Of course. This must be a very important dinner," he says with fake seriousness, then heads off with Buttercup to the living room to regain his composure and start a fire. I turn back to the peppers, sprinkling them with cheese and breadcrumbs, and shoving them in the oven. _Special dinner, indeed._

"You taste like olive oil, Katniss!" Peeta yells gleefully from the living room, and I remember why I am supposed to be enjoying this.

_The stage has been set for the play—_

_Hold me and tell me you'll be here to love me today._

_The moon's come and gone_

_But a few stars hang on, on to the sky._

When we finally get to the dining room table, I feel as if I've moved heaven and hell to put dinner in front of Peeta. The peppers nearly burned, because I had been too busy trying to set the table properly (_MANNERS! _Effie yelled in my head) and pick out the right candles for the occasion. Being lazy, I settled on the set that I had brought earlier: handmade, from my own wax. But that wasn't before I could smell the cheese on the peppers browning, and I knocked over every chair between me and the kitchen to save them. The stuffed peppers were fine; my knees, not so much. I cut some of Peeta's fresh bread as the peppers cooled, and Peeta came in the dining room. We never use the dining room, really, preferring to eat in the kitchen. But Peeta has painted it the loveliest shade of yellow, like a chaff of grain, and it is so warm and inviting that I forget how formal it is supposed to be. Peeta gives me a sly smile and sets out some fresh butter next to the bread and uncorks a bottle of red wine.

"You said tonight was special," he whispers into my ear, sitting down at his place at the head of the table. I served us, then putting the rest of the cooked stuffing into Buttercup's bowl, and took my seat at Peeta's right.

He was smiling. "What did you make, Katniss? I've never seen these before," Peeta says as he sinks his knife into the soft bowl of the bell pepper. I blush everywhere.

"They're stuffed peppers. Annie sent me the recipe. It was Finnick's favorite. She said she mentioned it to you once, and you wanted to try it. So, here we are, trying it," I say, cutting into my own pepper, watching the stuffing spill out. Peeta gripped his knife tightly for a moment.

"Why are we eating it now, Katniss?" he asks cautiously. I shrug. He eats some, then takes a drink of wine—his eyes never leaving mine.

_The wind's runnin' free_

_But it ain't up to me ask why._

_The poets are demanding their pay _

_They've left me with nothin' to say._

"Because I was thinking about how much Finnick means to us, and how I didn't know how to really appreciate you until Finnick was gone, and then I couldn't bear the thought of living with myself without you, AND THEN YOU CAME BACK TO ME IN THE TUNNELS, and that was about a year ago, so here we are!" I shout, burying my face in my hands so that Peeta can't see my hot, emotional tears. _OH. MY. GOD. WORD. VOMIT. STOP IT. YOU'RE GOING TO SCARE HIM AWAY!_ He just rubs my back, and between my fingers, I can see him smiling. Peeta's so goddamn smart.

"Did Annie tell you I'd like this, Katniss?" he asks ever so tenderly. I nod. He smiles, "She's right, you know, Finnick raved about these. She told me everything about him. I told her everything about you, about us. This was very nice of you. Thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm glad you like it," I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on my wine, unable to meet those unnervingly blue eyes.

"I appreciate it, Katniss," Peeta says deliberately, "I don't expect this every night."

"Tonight is special," I croak, bringing my napkin to my eyes. "One year ago tonight, you came back to me. In the Tunnel."

"So, is this like, our anniversary, Katniss?" Peeta says softly, reaching across the table and holding my left hand in his right, rubbing the knuckle of my ring finger. "The anniversary of the night that we stayed together, always?" I nod, stupidly.

"Yes. But we've been together far longer than that, Peeta. That night before the Quarter Quell, when you said we were married… I felt like… we were really married…," I mutter, pushing my stuffing around my plate. "But I didn't know if we were ready for this, three months ago, you know?" Now Peeta nods, rubbing my hand in that reassuring way that he always does.

"I was born ready, Katniss," Peeta replies; I'm not sure if he's joking or not. "Did you make the candles?" I nod, stuffing more food in my mouth, like a squirrel, and washing it down with wine. "They're really nice, Katniss…" I really don't know what to say, but it's so simple, really.

"It's always been you, Peeta, always," I sigh, finally meeting his gaze. He breaks into a huge smile and crushes his mouth to mine. In that kiss, I feel everything that Peeta has ever wanted: formal acknowledgement that I am his and he is mine, and that nothing will come between us. It's a mix of need and desire and want and comfort coupled with possession and dominance and animalism. I didn't know how badly I'd wanted to him to acknowledge it, too.

_'Cept hold me and tell me_

_You'll be here to love me today._

"I, for one, like having anniversaries," he says into our stuffed pepper-kisses, "it gives me even more reasons to spoil you."

We pass the rest of our dinner talking about the bakery (Peeta was upset because a mixer broke and evidently the kitchen has been covered in a fine layer of flour and dust for the better part of the day) and the Hob and gossiping about Haymitch and Effie, and Peeta eats three stuffed peppers, and opens a second bottle of wine. Everything just feels so natural and normal and comfortable, and I just want to freeze this moment in time—like the last day we spent on the Roof at the Training Center before the Quarter Quell.

When we settle down on the bearskin rug in from of the roaring fire, and our cheeks are red with wine, and our bellies are full with bread and peppers, I rest my head in his lap, and Peeta makes knots with my hair. His fire crackles in front of us, hissing and smoking and keeping the cold air away. The first winter snow of late November starts to come down outside, and I think how very different our lives were a year ago, and how much better off we are now. Nothing could be hotter than the lack-of-space between Peeta and me right now. Life isn't perfect, but it's good enough.

Peeta looks down at me, his eyes warm and blue and curious, and he leans down to kiss me. Now I'm the one seeking out greedy kisses, craning my neck up so that my lips can meet his.

"Katniss," Peeta breathes, breaking our kiss; I just lie down there looking up at his incredible jaw line. "Katniss, move in with me."

I don't even need to draw a breath to answer; I pull myself up in his lap to face him and wrap my arms about his neck, and I press our noses together. "Always, Peeta, always." Our lips crash together, and I'm not sure where I end and he begins, and I don't even care—I just want him, more of him—always. There are no finite boundaries between Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen anymore.

And just like that, Peeta brings me home again.

_Just hold me and tell me that you'll be here to love me today._


	22. Chapter 22: Birds of a Feather

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Birds of a Feather _belongs to The Civil Wars (love the band, on the fence regarding the name).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss moves in with Peeta, but not without being haunted by the ghosts of her past.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **So YAY, Katniss is finally moving in with Peeta! I always assumed that she moved in with him for a number of reasons. Namely, the memories of her family, and secondly, the encounter with Snow. I know Sae fed everyone at her house initially, but I think Katniss and Buttercup migrated to Peeta's house in time. I also think that since his family never lived with him in the Victor's Village, Peeta was lonely. But don't think it's all hunky-dorey for these two—Katniss has some serious anxieties about going through her belongings and her independence. Thanks for your reviews, criticisms, and support—they mean the whole world (and then some) to me!

Chapter 22: _Birds of a Feather_

_(Where she walks, no flowers bloom.)_

_He's the one I see right through._

_(She's the absinthe on my lips.)_

_The splinter in my fingertip._

Nothing really changes when I agree to move in with Peeta—except that he moves us into one of the other bedrooms while he paints ours. (It's really more of an inconvenience to him, really.) The guest bedroom feels so bare and cold with its sparse furniture and eggshell walls (Peeta promises to paint it as soon as he's done with ours), but practically sleeping on top of Peeta in the small twin bed makes it worthwhile. Neither of us minds the lack of personal space (it's not like we sleep with much to begin with). What does bother me is that Peeta has decided to make me go through all of my stuff at my old house before moving into his.

"Katniss, I don't want you to leave anything that you might miss or want later, and then you'll blame me for it," Peeta says patiently as he drags me across our yards.

"Like what? Possessions, things—they don't matter if the people aren't there!" I retort as I stomp up the stairs and kick in the door; luckily, Buttercup has already settled in at Peeta's house, so I can't startle him. _I have everything I need!_ I think angrily. _The only this house holds is dead memories and dust_.

"You wouldn't say that about your father's hunting jacket, or your bow and arrow," Peeta reminds me quietly. I nod my head and wrap the leather jacket about me more tightly. Peeta sighs as he steps in my house.

Peeta quietly shuts the front door. "Katniss, you need to go through Prim's things, through your mother's things. Cinna's things." I shake my head furiously.

"No, no, no, I don't!" I shout, the hot, wet tears already pouring down as I park myself on the stiff couch. Peeta nods at me. _Yes, yes you do, Katniss Everdeen_. He picks me up in his arms, and carries me up the sixteen stairs to the second floor, and with one hand, opens the door to my mother's room. It looks just the way it was when she left, the same way it looked those times I returned to Twelve with Gale for the propos. We never had much in the Seam, so everything my mother had of value, I had already brought back to Thirteen and then back again to Twelve.

_But who could do without you?_

_And who could do without you?_

I notice that someone—likely Peeta—has put a cardboard box on her bed. I sigh, and go to her closet, opening it and gathering all of her medicines and healing supplies. _Into the box you go_, I think sadly, _she's not coming back for you. Hell, she won't even come back for me_. Peeta gives me a steady nod. Her tea set is sitting on her desk, and I nestle it in next to the medicines. Peeta lets me take the lead, opening every drawer. I go through her nightstand, and find a small photo album of family pictures.

"How did I miss this, Peeta?" I say, caressing its aged pages delicately. _I can hear my mother's voice in these pages, I can hear my father's laugh, I can see Prim dancing in the meadow, and I see my two swinging braids._ It smells like my mother's perfume.

"I don't know, Katniss, just bring it home," he says with the patience of a saint. I don't want to linger in my mother's room, smoothing down her bedcover for eternity. I shake my head and start tearing through her dresser drawers, dumping all of her clothes into the box. Thankfully, she doesn't have much of them, and only a few dresses hang in her wardrobe. I'm not exactly crying, but I'm not exactly making human noises, either. Peeta has his arms wrapped around my waist. There's nothing else in this room that ever belonged to my mother. I let out a long sigh that comes out more like a hiccup.

"I'm done in here, Peeta—done for today," I say tersely, grabbing his hand and turning to leave. He takes the cardboard box, and shuts the door behind him. I say nothing when we get home, I just go upstairs and crawl into the little twin bed that can barely hold Peeta, let alone Peeta and myself. He comes upstairs a few minutes later, gently undressing me and kissing my salty tears away, then wraps his warm naked body against mine under the thick quilts. We stay like that all night. I think he's breathing for my broken body.

_(She's the sea I'm sinkin' in.)_

_He's the ink under my skin._

_Sometimes I can't tell where I am-_

_Where I leave off and he begins._

He wakes up early to head to the bakery and kisses my head so softly before he goes that I think it's a dream. I shuffle out of bed and downstairs shortly thereafter; it's no good trying to sleep when you can't. I blearily rub my eyes as I come into the living room. Peeta's living room feels _lived_ in; he's built me a fire this morning, like he's trying to convince me to stay home and nest. Peeta even left my breakfast on the coffee table: hot chocolate and cinnamon buns. I glance at the newspaper and start eating my breakfast when something on the fireplace mantle catches my eye; it's my mother's photo album, open to one page of my mother and father holding Prim and me, and the other Prim and me at the lake.

"Oh, Peeta," I cry, burying my face in my hands. _He's so good, Katniss, so good, how could you ever deserve this? This isn't even your house yet, and your ghosts are haunting him! _

I finish eating, and take my plates into the kitchen, and I notice that Peeta has arranged my mother's tea set as a centerpiece on the dining room table. It matches the room to a tee. I sigh and head to the mudroom to put on my boots so that I can check on the bees and geese and Haymitch, and see that Peeta has put all of the medicine away in a cabinet with a glass door (so that I can see everything when I'm in a rush to bandage a wound). My mother's clothes are neatly folded in the cardboard box, labeled "Charity." _He's doing all the hard work for me_, I think as I head out the door to Haymitch's.

_But who could do without you?_

_And who could do without you?_

Peeta finds me in bed when he comes home for lunch; he never comes home for lunch._ Something wicked this way comes_, I sing in my head, suspicious of his motives already. He pokes his head in the room, and I give him a weak smile.

"Have you even gotten out of bed today?" he says with a slight grin as he sits on the edge of the bed and cradles me to him.

"Mmm hmm," I nod against him. "Breakfast. Bees. Bed."

"I'm worried about you," Peeta whispers into my hair, "You didn't come to the bakery." I shrug. "Do you want to balance the books at home today?" I nod. "Katniss, we need to go back over and get Prim's things." I freeze. I shake my head. _NO! Touching her things means admitting that she's really gone!_ I cry inside my head, but instead keel forward and bury my face in Peeta's lap.

"Do you want me to go do it?" Peeta broaches, and I shake my head. "Katniss, I know Prim is gone, but you can still have a small part of her. She's with you, inside of you, every day. You carry her heart in your heart. She'd want you to find closure." He rubs my back, and I open my eyes against his.

"Okay. But we make it quick, got it?" I huff as I sit up and pat the rats' nest that is my hair. Peeta nods sternly. I feel dead inside. "Peeta, I just don't want to be in that house, that never felt like a home, surrounded by the ghosts of a dead sister and a dead father and a mother who might as well be dead."

"I know, Katniss," he says, pulling me against his chest. "And it's weird—your house smells like President Snow. I wouldn't want to be there either, frankly." I can't help but laugh a little bit.

_Oh, we're a pretty, pretty pair._

_Yes, we are._

_All, all the king's horses_

_And all of his men_

_Couldn't tear us apart._

We head over, each of us carrying, cutting a path through the new-fallen snow to the front door. _This is the last time I have to go through this door, _I think, and something like a smile crosses my face.

"Do you want to keep anything in here?" Peeta asks as we stand in the living room.

"The books," I say, "they were my father's." Peeta dutifully packs the books into a box. "Anything else?" I shake my head.

Before we even go in the kitchen, Peeta shakes his head. "Katniss, don't worry. I'll pack up your dishes and pots and pans, and I'll just bring them over tomorrow, okay?" Now I nod.

He glances at the dining room that my mother had converted to an operating room. "The healing table?" Peeta hesitantly asks. I brush it away with the jerk of my hands.

"We'll get it to a new healer in town, ask Thom," I reply gruffly.

"That's a good idea," Peeta says, "They'll need it." He takes my hand, and leads me upstairs. I open Prim's room for the first time in nearly a year. Everything is how she left it before the firebombing—neat, orderly, delicate.

_But who could do without you?_

_And who could do without you?_

"Oh, Peeta, I can't," I cry against his chest. He holds me to him, stroking my hair.

"You can't leave her here, Katniss, bring her home," Peeta coos, wiping my tears away with his hand. I nod as bravely as I can. "Are there any toys you want to save?" I nod, pointing to a velveteen rabbit on her bed. Peeta puts it in the box with my father's books. "What else?" I point to the box of ribbons on her dresser. "They'll look nice in your hair, Katniss, and when you wear them, you'll have a piece of her on you," he says. "What else?" There's a book of poetry, a book of mythology, and her anthology of children's literature on her bookshelf, so I point to those, and Peeta dutifully puts them in the box.

"The amethyst," I mumble, pointing at the bulky purple rock on Prim's nightstand. "My father found it in the mines and gave it to her, because purple was her favorite color." Peeta lets his own tears make his way down his cheekbones and fall off his jaw line as I pack Prim's clothes and remaining toys into the other box.

"That's it?" he sniffles. _Katniss, be nice, he misses Prim, too. She was like his little sister. This is what Prim would want… _I tell myself measuredly.

"We don't need toys, Peeta," I say, a little too harshly; I didn't want it to come off that way. "And it's not like I can wear her clothes. She was already bigger than me. We'll donate them, be done with it." Peeta nods his head sadly. "I don't want their ghosts haunting your house, too." I avert my gaze from his.

"It's our house, Katniss, okay? My house, your house, our house," Peeta replies, kissing my eyelashes, kissing my tears away. _He always knows just what to say_, I think quietly.

_Dancing with a ball and chain_

_Through it all we still remain._

_Butterflies around the flame_

_'Till ashes, ashes, we fade away._

We leave, shutting the door gently, not trying to disturb anything—to leave it just as it was. Peeta points to the door next to Prim's.

"What's in there, Kat?" he asks. I puff up and narrow my eyes at him.

"It's just a guest room, Peeta," I snap. He looks at me like he knows that it's more than a guest room.

"You keep anything in there?" Peeta asks. I roll my eyes at him. _Katniss! Knock it off! He's trying to help you! Stop second-guessing him!_

"Yes, Peeta, that's where I keep everything from Cinna and the Tours, alright?" I hiss. He nods and seems satisfied with that answer for the time being.

"Kat, lay off, I'm just trying to help, okay?" he says, putting his hands up defensively.

"I just can't deal with this right now!" I hiss as I stomp downstairs. _I just know I wouldn't be here, doing this, without Peeta. I'm such a fucking coward_.

Peeta follows my lead, out the door, into the falling snow. _Ashes falling like snow_, I think as we make our way with Prim's belongings, back to our house.

_But who could do without you?_

_And who could do without you?_


	23. Chapter 23: Follow You Into the Dark

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _I Will Follow You Into the Dark _belongs to Death Cab For Cutie.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta deals with the emotion aftermath of Katniss' symbolic act of moving her mother and Prim's things to his house. Peeta knows when to follow Katniss into the darkness, and when to pull her out. Lemons.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Awww, thanks for the reviews and constructive criticisms, I really appreciate everything. I'm trying to stay really true to canon and character, which is actually difficult in regard to this Epilogue. I just think the whole process of Katniss moving into Peeta's house is really a rite of passage, a rite of adulthood, where she separates herself from her parent's home and joins Peeta in a new union. It's about losing her independence and rediscovering it in a new way. It's about bringing two families—the Everdeens and the Mellarks—together as one in the Everdeen-Mellark household. It's about Katniss letting go of some of her defenses and letting Peeta inside. I love the act of them moving in together, because it really is a new chapter in the life of Peeta and Katniss. Oh, and I think _I Will Follow You Into the Dark _is perfect for this chapter because Peeta lets Katniss grieve—he knows when to let her go into her sorrows, but he goes in after her, and they go through the darkness, and he knows when to pull her out. Enjoy the lemons!

Chapter 23: _I Will Follow You Into the Dark_

_Love of mine, some day you will die,_

_**But I'll be close behind-**_

_**I'll follow you into the dark.**_

We stomp home in silence, and I make my way upstairs to bed without even looking at Peeta, the same way I did the other night. But this afternoon he follows me right upstairs, right into our makeshift bedroom. Peeta shuts the door quietly. I sit down hard on the edge of the bed.

"What's wrong, Katniss?" Peeta asks quietly, his cloudy blue eyes meeting mine in a heated stare.

"I just… just… hate this!" I yell. Peeta looks taken aback.

_No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white,_

_**Just our hands clasped so tight-**_

_**Waiting for the hint of a spark.**_

"Hate what? Moving in with me?" he replies softly, like I ripped out his heart and throttled it. I shake my head furiously.

"No! I ha—hate… that you're making me go back there and go through their stuff!" I shout, shaking my fists in anger. Peeta steps toward me. "I want to live with _you_, Peeta. I love you. I just hate dealing with _them_."

He shrugs his big shoulders. "But you had to go back and get their belongings—you'd never forgive yourself if you didn't. And as much as it hurts to remember them, it would hurt a thousand times worse to forget them," Peeta says definitively. _I hate it when he's right_.

I throw up my hands. "I just hate it! I hate feeling these feelings! No matter how much I feel, they're never coming back! So why bother?" I'm shrieking now, practically hysterical in my grief.

_If Heaven and Hell decide_

_That they both are satisfied,_

_Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs—_

_**If there's no one beside you,**_

_**When your soul embarks,**_

_**Then I'll follow you into the dark.**_

Peeta crosses the room in one step and enfolds me in his arms. He holds my face between his hands. "No, we can't bring them back—but you have to live, Katniss, and feeling is part of living. So you just have to learn to deal with it." His eyes are so sincere and full of understanding. He kisses my neck, tracing up to my mouth with his lips, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. _It's too late to think unsexy thoughts_, I think.

"I like it when you make me feel feelings, Peeta," I say shyly into his mouth.

"Oh really?" he answers as he peels off his shirt. "I like making you feel." He pulls my shirt over my head, and it's only a matter of moments before I've slipped my hands down his torso and unbuckled his pants and he slips my sweatpants over my hips.

"You're not wearing any underwear," Peeta mumbles against my breasts as his hands drive my legs apart.

"I don't even know why I bother on most days, Peeta," I say with a desperate sigh, pulling his mouth toward mine while weaving my fingers into his hair. He pushes me back into the bed, hovering over me before crashing his lips into mine. And I just open up to him, like I've never known anything else. I hitch my legs around him, and moan as he nuzzles my breasts, feeling his stubble on my skin.

_In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule,_

_I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black._

_And I held my tongue as she told me,_

_"Son, **fear is the heart of love**."_

_So I never went back._

Peeta takes a nipple into his mouth and nips down a bit, sending jolts of electricity across my body. His other hand never leaves the other breast, and he rolls that nipple between his fingers as he stares up at me with his incredible blue eyes. Leaving my nipple red and swollen, he turns his attention to the other breast, nibbling and kneading, and leaving it red and raw. Peeta kisses wet circles up to my lips, and pushes his hip against mine as he kisses the corners of my mouth.

"Peeta," I moan, my hands clawing his back as he makes marks on my neck.

"What are you feeling, Katniss?" Peeta nearly growls into my skin and I clutch his tailbone. I'm throbbing between my legs for him, but Peeta's hands are touching every inch of my body that isn't my core.

"Alive, Peeta, alive," I beg, pulling his mouth back to mine. "Please, Peeta, make me whole." He smiles at me, dipping a hand between my legs, rolling my clit between his thumb and ring finger, and pushing one finger into my center. I cry out like a wild animal and when he pumps back, it's two fingers. "Peeta, please, Peeta—" I wail as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them dry. I'm reaching up to meet his lips when Peeta suddenly flips onto his back, and I'm on top of him.

_If Heaven and Hell decide_

_That they both are satisfied,_

_Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs—_

_**If there's no one beside you**_

_**When your soul embarks,**_

_**Then I'll follow you into the dark.**_

I can see every beautiful scar, every mark, every muscle on his gorgeous body. Peeta is smiling up at me with his blue eyes, dark with desire as he sucks me in. I'm almost distracted as I trace his scars with my mouth, kissing his pockmarks and the broad expanse of his chest. It's his turn to groan.

"Katniss, focus—take me inside of you," Peeta commands, and positions his member right under my womanhood, aligning us at the base. I let go of his hands, and slide down. I feel like I'm being split in two again, scorching and burning and on fire as I feel Peeta inside of me in a completely new way. A primal scream escapes my throat.

"I like having you on top, seeing you, all of you, Katniss," Peeta moans as he starts to thrust, and I go with him—but I control the pace. "You're so tight and so wet and so hot," he moans. "Fucking incredible," he pants. His hands come to rest on my breasts and squeezes them together as his face contorts.

I bring myself down with his thrusts, down to meet his lips with mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck and his hands on my hips guide him inside of me. I come up for air, and he catches a nipple with his mouth. I put my hands on his chest and bounce up and down on his hips ever harder, my walls contracting and expanding against him and he hits the bundle of nerves at my cervix over and over again. I'm scratching him as I rake my hands down his chest, and he sits up on his elbows to suckle at my breasts while I rock back against his hips, taking him further and further inside of me, inside my walls.

_You and me have seen everything to see,_

_From Bangkok to Calgary._

_And the soles of your shoes are all worn down._

_**The time for sleep is now,**_

_**It's nothing to cry about-**_

_**'Cause we'll hold each other soon**_

_**In the blackest of rooms.**_

"Peeta," I cry, and he brings my mouth to his greedy lips, "I can't hold on much more." And I can't. Every nerve in my body is on fire and my walls are wildly grasping at Peeta's member every time he pulls away and then suck him back in, and my nub is tingling with anticipation. He's slipping out because I'm so slick, and he's so hard that it's almost painful.

"Let go, Katniss…," he murmurs breathlessly against my cheek. I push myself down with as much force as I can, my core to his hilt, and I feel my release as I wail into his mouth. His kisses stop my uneven breathing, and bring me back to him. I feel myself collapse against him, my hair wet across his shoulders, as my vagina spasms against his member.

"Peeta, I love you, Peeta," I sigh, and he kisses the top of my head. Without even pulling out of me, Peeta turns us onto my back, and I wrap my legs behind his, and he begins thrusting against at a steady, deep, even pace. _Peeta, always so steady and consistent and even_, I think wondrously as my hips fall into rhythm with his. He's still kissing me, but his breathing tells me that he's looking for his own release, so I will my walls to constrict and tighten and expand against him. Peeta smiles into my kisses.

_If Heaven and Hell decide_

_That they both are satisfied,_

_Illuminate the No's on their vacancy signs-_

"Katniss," he moans, bringing his hands to my hips, guiding his manhood within me, aligning my center with his. I clench down again, and Peeta squeezes his eyes shut as his rhythm loses its steadiness and he starts to lose control and he plows into my womanhood with the ferocity of a wild beast. His eyes roll back in his head as he slams into me and finds his release against my walls. "I love you," Peeta grunts as he finishes. Peeta kisses my shoulders, my eyelashes, my cheeks, my chin, and finally my lips. I settle in underneath him, his head nooked between my shoulder and my neck. He falls asleep inside of me, and I can't think of a better way to feel alive.

_**If there's no one beside you**_

_**When your soul embarks,**_

_**Then I'll follow you into the dark,**_

_**Then I'll follow you into the dark.**_


	24. Chapter 24: Who Cares?

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Who Cares? _belongs to the The Alternate Routes.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **An unexpected delivery from Peeta's friends forces Katniss to confront her demons and ghosts too soon for comfort.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Moving in together is a huge rite of passage, so I want to dedicate a few chapters to it! Obviously, Peeta is very excited and Katniss is super-nervous; she's the only family he's ever wanted, and she's afraid to leave the only family she's ever known. I'm kind of a hippie and not big on personal possessions, but I understand how people become attached and don't want to abandon things—but they also don't want to deal with the issues at hand. I think in this instance, Peeta forces Katniss' hand. Thank you for the many reviews and criticisms—enjoy and comment away!

**Please come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com—Happy Hour starts at 5pm!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

**adultfanfiction dot net: pippi_blondestocking**

Chapter 24: _Who Cares?_

_I'm amazed at the state of misery;_

_Seven grades and they paid for your sympathy._

_I watched the end of a friend and a family;_

_It's a dream, it's a trick, it's a tragedy._

I'm asleep, deep in my pillow fort kingdom; Peeta left for the bakery hours ago, it seems. He left a quick kiss on my cheeks and a squeeze between my thighs, and he was off. He didn't even nag me about coming in to see to the books today. I'm drifting in and out of dreamless sleep with Buttercup curled around my head. I'm thinking about Peeta—my Peeta—and we're making love in the cave, his breath quick in my ear, and I let a hand find its way between my legs and up to my center as a particular thought forms. Before I can even finger myself, I hear a great banging at the door.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" I shout, falling out of bed as Buttercup scurries to the door frantically. I'm naked (per usual), and the first definite articles of clothing that I can find are a pair of Peeta's boxers and one of his button-down shirts. The clanging at my front door persists—like the gods of thunder are trying to break into my house. And to top it off—the Mellark family grandfather clock is going off like that's its job. _BRINGING BRINGING BRINGING across my ears!_ (I shouldn't be angry—the only things Peeta still has from his family is that damn grandfather clock and his mother's crystal serving set.)

_And the story goes, just like the eulogy—_

_I put my rage in a page and it speaks to me._

_Something changed and the game doesn't matter now;_

_It doesn't matter now._

"GIMME A MINUTE," I holler at the top of my lungs, attempting to button Peeta's shirt as I crash though the bedroom door and hurtle down the hall toward the stairs. I hear men shouting—shouting at me—and I assume that something is wrong. The moment that my brain kicks into panic-mode, I miss a step and tumble down the stairs, over Buttercup, falling into the landing with a resounding _thud_. I scramble to me feet and to the front door; all I can think is _please not Peeta, please not Peeta—please, don't let it be Peeta!_ The knocking is incessant, and I literally throw the door open with myself.

Gazing back at me—taken aback—is Thom and Bristel and a few other men from town, staring at me like I'm a feral dog. I know realize that Peeta's shirt is mostly unbuttoned, and that I'm half-naked, smelling like sex and bed sores with my hair in a rats' nest.

"IS IT PEETA?" I scream at them, hiding halfway behind the great door, peering at them like a raccoon (with the shadows under my eyes, I must look like one). Thom shakes his head, and Bristel coughs slightly. I look down, and see that they are carrying trunks. Trunks from my house. Trunks from the house from the room that I never go in. I lose my breath.

"Well, Peeta did send us over here to leave this stuff with you," Bristel coughs, "so you can blame him, Sleeping Beauty."

_All the days before you die, this time I see it now I know._

_Don't ask when and don't ask why; _

_Where can I tell the truth before I go and—_

My eyes burn with anger. "Who gave you permission to go in that room and take those trunks?" I hiss, looking at Cinna's trunks with a mixture of fear and loathing.

"Peeta did, Katniss, now let us in so that we can leave them with you and be done with it," Thom answers, pushing his way in with a trunk. Bristel follows him with another, and another young man behind him with another. The whole gang barges in with trunks and boxes. Thom and Bristel and the unidentified young man head upstairs, and I run to the stairs in shock.

"Where are you going?" I bellow, trying to button my shirt simultaneously.

"Third door on the left, Katniss," Bristel replies.

"I'M NOT ALLOWED TO GO IN THAT ROOM," I shriek. That's Peeta's room. A room I've never gone in. He told me once that he keeps his things in there, but he'd rather I not go in.

Thom shrugs. "Well, Katniss, that's where he told us to put these trunks and those wardrobes, and those are his orders."

_You said,_

"_I'm gonna lose it;_

_I think I'll break everything and start again—_

_It is my, life I see no end."_

_ORDERS? _I think furiously, _who gives the orders around here? Whelp, Katniss, this is __**his**__ house_, I remember as I huff and puff at the bottom of the stairs as two more men follow Thom and Bristel and the other with an empty wardrobe from my house. I know these men from town, from the bakery, but I don't _know_ them—Peeta must have recruited them to move the rest of my things.

I turn my attention to the living room, as a few more men bring in boxes of stuff—pots and pans and dishes from my kitchen, my pristine box of Victor's china—a box of linens from my rarely-used linen closet. A young boy runs in with a cigar box and drops it on the sofa, looking at me in abject terror and pity, before running out of the house again. Another empty wardrobe goes up the stairs. Everything—everyone in my life—is boxed up in neat little caskets before me. My mother. My father. Prim. Cinna. Little Katniss.

_Well, Katniss, this is it, this is the stuff of your life—the only material possessions you have left. They're your problem now, sweetheart_. _Can't avoid them anymore._

Thom and Bristel come downstairs, surveying the living room as I sit on the stairs and shake with anger. Angry that Peeta let them go in my house. Angry that they went through my things. Angry that they brought my stuff over to Peeta's house, even though it's my house now, too. Angry that they effectively cut the cord for me. Angry that no one asked for my permission. Angry that Peeta is making me deal with this all by myself.

_So take it out on the streets, in the avenues—_

_Play it loud like you always wanted to._

_Turn it up turn it out can't you let it go—_

_Leave your keys see the smoke on the stereo._

"That's everything, kiddo," Bristel says softly, rubbing my shoulder in a brotherly fashion. "We locked up behind us. What should we do with the key?"

I frown, wrinkling my forehead. "Drop it off at City Hall and tell them I've moved out," I reply quietly. Thom and Brock nod, exchanging secret glances.

"Go ahead, tell Peeta," I hiss like a cat between my clenched teeth, "tell him the house isn't mine anymore and I'm here. Go."

Thom and Bristel exchange another glance as I refuse to let my body be overcome with silent sobs. "It'll be alright, Katniss, it'll be okay," Thom says, ruffling my matted hair with his giant hand as the men leave. "You know how to find us if you need us." I nod. But the only person I want right now is next door.

_All the days before you die, _

_This time I see it now I know._

_Don't ask when and don't ask why _

_Where can I tell the truth before I go and—_

I run to the kitchen, tripping over Buttercup again, to find that Peeta has left me hot cider on the stove and fresh bear claws for breakfast.

I pick up the phone as hot, wet, fresh new tears begin to stream down my face. "HAYMITCH!" I cry as I hear the receiver pick up.

"WHADDYA WANT AT THIS HOUR, SWEETHEART?" Haymitch yells right back. I bite my bottom lip, drawing some blood as my teeth rip into the soft flesh. I let out a guttural cry as I look at my mother's tea set in the dining room.

"HAYMITCH! COME OVER! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!" I scream. I don't give a fuck if the boys can still hear me. _Maybe they'll tell Peeta how goddamn furious I am._

"Why?" Haymitch slurs.

_You said,_

"_I'm gonna lose it;_

_I think I'll break everything and start again—_

_It is my, life I see no end."_

"I NEED SOME MENTORING AND YOU'RE MY MENTOR, SO GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!" I sob, drowning the telephone in tears. _Because I can't unpack these things without some support, because I can't deal with my feelings without you or Peeta! _That's what I really want to say (of course, I don't).

"What's in it for me, sweetheart?" he mutters, and I can hear him clambering about for his shoes.

"Breakfast. Undying love," I sniff delicately, wiping my nose on the sleeve of Peeta's nice shirt. Haymitch unceremoniously hangs up the phone, and I know I've won that battle.

_I see my life in clips and phrases,_

_Pictures shows and written pages._

_Where does the widow go from here?_

_Where can I steal a day before I'm gone away?_


	25. Chapter 25: Ragged Company

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Ragged Company _belongs to Grace Potter & the Nocturnals.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss calls Haymitch to deal with her rage when Peeta send her belongings over to his house, but does Haymitch know Katniss better than she knows herself? Painful realizations.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **SURPRISE! (NOT.) Katniss is scared about moving in with Peeta. The only person she can trust is Haymitch. Moving in is HUGE RITE OF PASSAGE; I imagine that it takes a lot out of Katniss emotionally because she never had a clean break with her mom or dad. As much as she wants to move in with Peeta and form a new family unit, it's going to be an intense experience. It's all informal—nothing traditional, nothing finite—just Katniss and Peeta and their commitment to one another. We all like to have ritual and tradition and order and structure. This is how I imagine Peeta and Katniss restructuring their lives. One more chapter, and then a juicy lemon! Thanks for your review, support, and continued constructive criticisms— enjoy!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 25: _Ragged Company_

_Oh Lord, I think I'm falling—to my disbelief!_

Haymitch schleps in my backdoor, glaring at me the entire time. As if to make some point, he gives Buttercup a quick ear nuzzle, all the while glaring at me. He dumps himself into a chair at the table. Haymitch sits in front of me in his flannel pyjamas with wine bottles all over them. It is taking all of my willpower to not laugh at him. He's sitting there, staring at me, waiting for me to crack. I wipe the tears from my cheekbones, and turn to him.

"Nice pyjamas, Haymitch. Who picked them out? Your grandmother?" I laugh, stirring Peeta's cider on the stove. Haymitch stands up, pulls his flask out of a pocket, and pours all of his bourbon into the hot, spiced cider.

"Effie did, actually," he answers haughtily, pushing hair out of his eyes. "What look are you sporting? Whore couture?" I narrow my eyes at him and hiss.

"It's all I could find," I muster.

"Charming. You smell like sex. Do you kids ever shower, or do you just kind of frolic about in each other's musk all day?" he says, ladling himself a generous cup of bourbon and cider.

"I overslept," I whisper, pulling Peeta's shirt closer around me.

He ruffles my hair with his hand. "Hair looks great, sweetheart. What vitamins are you taking?" Haymitch jokes as I jerk away.

"STOP. I NEED YOU TO BE HERE. I NEED YOU TO BE NICE," I stammer at the top of my lungs. Haymitch takes a long drink of cider.

"Why, sweetheart? Lover Boy finally asked you to move in—that's sweet. What more do you want?" he says as he settles back into his chair, then shuffling back and propping his bare feet up on Peeta's kitchen table. _Peeta is going to have a shit fit!_ I internally scream. I attempt to compose myself, taking some cider into a small mug.

_I'm cursing like a sailor and lying like a thief._

_It's hard to heed the calling from the better side of me,_

_When I'm blaming everybody else and no one's coming clean._

"Haymitch, he had his friends bring all of my stuff over!" I say indignantly, stomping my foot. Haymitch furrows his brows.

"So? You moved out. He brought your stuff over. Big. Fucking. Deal," Haymitch retorts. I screw my foot nervously into the wood floor. "Is the problem that he's being nice to you?"

"Haymitch! He had no business going over to my house and taking my things!"

"And what, bringing them here, where you now supposedly reside?" Haymitch asks wryly.

"NOT HIS CONCERN!" I yelp, taking a big sip of cider. The heat burns my throat, and the liquor sooths it.

"He did you a favor, sweetheart."

"I've heard that one before, smart ass."

"It's true. Were you going to go over and get everything?" I shake my head at his question.

"NO! These are Cinna's things, Prim's things, my mother and father's things—" I squeak, and Haymitch cuts me off.

"Your things, Katniss, your things. Peeta brought your things to his house, because it's your house too, now, and this is an issue because…?"

"I DON'T WANT TO UNPACK THEM! THEY. ARE. NOT. MINE!" I shout, finishing my cider in one warm swallow.

"Yes, they are. And no, you don't want to deal with them," Haymitch sighs, sipping his own drink. I take my seat at the table, across from Haymitch, glaring at one another with our Seam eyes.

"Yeah? So fucking what? I don't WANT to deal with them!" I cry, throwing my hands up in exasperation. _Haymitch of all people should understand!_ I think. Haymitch furrows his brow again.

_Oh Lord, can you see my thick skin wearing thin?_

_And the demons of a lesser me are beckoning me in._

"Too fucking bad, sweetheart, you have to. I did it. Peeta is doing it. C'mon, won't you join the pity party?" Haymitch sings softly. My head falls into my hands, nearly swimming in bourbon.

"I don't want to—" I whine.

"But you have to. That's the stuff of life, sweetheart. The dead are the lucky ones—they don't have to deal with anything. The living—well, we relive everything over and over again. So is the curse of life," he sighs into his mug. I reach instinctively for his hand. He grasps it back.

"Live," Haymitch says, simply. "Fucking live, Katniss Everdeen. Let the boy help you live."

"HE CAN'T MAKE ME!" I cry, letting tears fall onto our hands.

"He's not making you do anything, sweetheart," Haymitch muses. "You're Katniss Everdeen, the fucking mockingjay. What could he make you do?"

"He brought my family's things over here."

"Peeta wants them to be a part of your home. What's the problem?"

I swallow, hard. "That's just it, Haymitch. It's our home—not mine, not his. Ours. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet," I sniffle. He narrows his eyes into half-moons at me.

"So he's going to help you sort it out and put it into order and organize it into your new life? And this is bad because…?" Haymitch says shortly.

"It's not his problem," I reply, fiddling with my knuckles.

"Look, sweetheart, at least you have someone who will help you sort through your problems and belongings and feelings—some of us had no one," Haymitch replies brusquely. "It is his problem, because _you_ are his problem."

"I'm not his problem," I say softly. _I don't want Haymitch to know how much I need Peeta_.

_Those who gathered 'round me— _

_I'm watching them all leave—_

'_Cause I am my own ragged company._

Now Haymitch's cheeks have grown red with fury and liquor. "KATNISS! YOU ARE ALL HE HAS LEFT! YOU ARE HIS ONLY FUCKING PROBLEM, HIS ONLY CONCERN!" I start crying, burying my face into Peeta's shirtsleeves.

"I knowww—" I wail.

"NO, YOU DON'T," Haymitch roars. He sees the genuine fear and terror on my face, and he softens. "Katniss, when I came home from my Games, my family and girl were already dead. Their things at my house. I had no one to help me sort things out. No one to play 'Real, Not Real' with me. All. Alone. Until you and the boy came along."

I nod slowly, and Haymitch goes on. "Peeta came home—came home to you. You are the only reason he came back here. Do you think he had anyone to help him in those first few weeks, going through his stuff, stuff he couldn't even recognize? No, he was alone. As if you could see that through your morphling haze," Haymitch states bluntly. "At least you have him here, to go through everything with you. Sweetheart, he's your family—that's what you've got left."

"I know he's my family, that doesn't make it any easier," I inhale a sharp intake of breath quickly—so quick that it hurts my lungs.

"It's not bad, the boy wants your family to be a part of his family. Why does that bother you so fucking much?" Haymitch poses. I shake my head and pick at a bear claw. Haymitch suddenly lets go of my hand and laughs. "It's a daddy-issue, isn't it?"

I push away from the table, horrified. "PEETA IS NOT REPLACING MY FATHER, HAYMITCH!" I bellow, banging my fist on the table for good measure. Haymitch dismisses me with the motion of his hand.

"Peeta takes care of you? Protects you? Would fucking kill people for you? Defends you at every turn? Sees that you have everything that you need to survive? Holds you as you fall asleep at night? First thing he checks in the morning? Needs you? Needs you to survive? And in turn, you need him?" Haymitch questions me. I nod slowly.

"He's not replacing my father," I say again slowly, refusing to believe that it could be true.

_You can take a trip to china or take a boat to Spain—_

_Take a blue canoe around the world and never come back again._

Haymitch shakes his head. "Father and husband are not the same thing, Katniss," he says quietly. I shake my head.

"Haymitch, my father took care of me. You have no idea how hard it is for me let someone else—," I croak. "I don't want to—don't want to… become… dependent… upon another person." And I lose it at the kitchen table. All of my fears regarding the loss of my father, the role of Peeta, the act of moving in Peeta's house and forming a new little family unit… all without my father's approval or guidance. My father had been the only constant in my life, the only unconditionally good thing. _If I love Peeta as much as I loved my father, what would happen to me if Peeta goes away?_ I think.

"Independence is overrated, sweetheart," Haymitch slurs, wrapping his arm around my bony shoulders.

"But I'm afraid to become dependent upon Peeta! WHAT IF I LOSE HIM?" I convulse.

"You've already come as close to losing him as you ever will, sweetheart," Haymitch replies quietly. "The boy will never leave your side—not until he departs this earth. He's yours."

"That's what I thought about my father, and he died in the mines and left us!" I cry hysterically. Haymitch shakes his head.

"No offense, sweetheart, but what Peeta has been through is far, far worse. He'll never leave you now, not until his last breath leaves his decrepit body," Haymitch tells me, and I believe him. The very thought of old, dying Peeta reduces me to gross crying.

_But traveling don't change a thing, it only makes it worse_

_Unless the trip you take is in to change your cruel course._

"MY MOTHER ABADONED ME AND I HAD TO TAKE CARE OF PRIM!" I shriek at Haymitch, digging into the table with my fingernails, feeling the splinters underneath my nails.

"KATNISS, GIVE UP THE GHOST AND LET GO OF THIS THING YOU CALL 'INDEPENDENCE'! This boy loves you—HE WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU!" Haymitch roars back at me.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW?"

"DROP THE FAÇADE, KATNISS. DROP. IT."

"I don't want to need another person to survive, Haymitch!" I reply. I think of all of the years after my father died—taking care of Prim, bringing my mother back from the dead, hunting with Gale—never expecting happiness or joy. _Joy, I got it!_ I think. _With Peeta, I have it. Joy is what I've been missing. But can I give my independence to him? He's already given his to me? What does that make us? Mutually dependent and independent?_

"It's only dependence if the other person doesn't need you, Katniss," Haymitch surmises. "Does Peeta need you as much as you need him? Do you need Peeta as much as he needs you? Then it's mutually-assured destruction. You're independent—you're just a team now. Do you need anyone else?" I shake my head.

"I need Peeta," I answer, my voice weak and shaky. "He'll never replace my father… but he's the only person who fills his void…"

"Good," Haymitch says, straightening up. "You're not giving up your independence—Peeta needs you and you need Peeta—it's mutual, sweetheart, that's all." I nod. We finish our bear claws and head into the living room full of boxes.

_'Cause every town's got a mirror_

_And every mirror still shows me_

_That I am my own ragged company._

"What have we got here?" Haymitch slurs, gesturing toward the boxes of dishes and pots and pans and china and linens and books.

"Stuff," I say, shrugging my shoulders. Haymitch shakes his head, pointing at the cigar box on the couch. My breath catches in my throat. The cigar box belonged to my father—I had discovered it in the study one day after I returned to Twelve. It still smelled like him—of tobacco and woods and honey. I decided to keep Gale's letters there—out of sight, out of mind. I hadn't cared to find it in the study the other day, but I was glad now that Peeta doubled-checked everything, bringing home another piece of my father.

"Letters," I growl, drinking more cider, feeling the bourbon's warm strength spread though my body.

"From whom?" Haymitch snickers, lunging toward the box.

"GALE!" I squawk. "GALE! I HAVEN'T READ ANY OF THEM," I cry as I reach towards the sofa, falling flat on my face like a fool. Even Buttercup judges me.

_Oh Lord, it's lonely, Lord it's mighty cold,_

_And I don't want to live this way—_

_Afraid of growing old._

"Sweetheart, you need to sober up before the boy comes home," Haymitch mutters. "Whaddya think is in those letters anyway?" I bite my tongue as the bile rises in my throat. Gale—my brother, my cousin, my betrothed—dead to me now.

I shake my head. "Dear Catnip, sorry I kind of sort of killed your sister. Not my fault, exactly. Shit happens in war. District Two is awesome. Are you still fucking Wonder Boy? Yada yada yada. Hey everyone, come see how good I look!" I say glumly, looking at the letters. I know that Gale is begging for my forgiveness. For my permission for him to come home. For salvation. For absolution. For redemption. But he'll find none of that with me. He'll find his own brand of salvation in District Two. We're said and done, and our chapter is closed. It was never going to be him, and he can never accept that fact. I love Gale—but I was never in love with him—and he'll never acknowledge my answers. Haymitch nods.

"Do you think it's cold in here, Haymitch?" I ask smartly, holding the stack of unopened letters in my hand. I snap them between my fingers like a deck of cards.

"Kind of," Haymitch says. "Why?"

I look at the fireplace. I walk over, deliberately, opening the glass doors and stuffing Gale's letters beneath the grate. I stack the driest pieces of wood atop the makeshift pyre, and reach for Peeta's giant matches,

"Gale was my best friend, Haymitch. But now, he's kindling. Dead to me," I sat as I light fire to Gale's letters, watching the flames lick up and down their thin, narrow, dry length.

Haymitch settles in on the couch, watching me light fire to my past.

_It's hard to heed the warning_

_When you cannot see the crime;_

_The only way to remember is to forget in a rhyme._

"You know, Katniss, it's okay to love different people at different times in your life," he says softly, watching the flames consume the wood.

I sit down heavily on a box of pots. "Are you talking about Effie, Haymitch?" I ask quietly. He nods and smiles, his grey eyes crinkling into warm half-moons.

"Yeah. But it's okay for you, too, sweetheart. Gale was your best friend, and he's not anymore. You still love him, just in a different time and place. Your father can't be replaced, but you still love and respect him. And Peeta—"

I have to interrupt Haymitch. "Peeta is my best friend now, Haymitch. He was always meant to be my lover. This was going to happen anyway. Can your best friend be your lover?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer, hugging my knees to my chest.

Haymitch smiles. "Of course. We call that a 'husband' in common parlance." I nod with a slight smile on my face.

"It's really okay to love different people for different reasons at different times?" I ask again, looking for an answer. The flames are consuming Gale's letters with the fire of a thousand suns. I feel like Peeta's flames are consuming the best of Gale and my father within his tight embrace. Haymitch nods.

"Yup. That's true love, sweetheart," Haymitch answers. "Now, what did you bring me over for?"

_And I'm scared to tread the red road that leads to Galilee,_

_'Cause I am my own ragged company._

I bite my lip. "To help me put stuff away. Without Peeta. I can't do it alone," I reply. Haymitch smirks and stands up, taking my box of Victor's china with him.

"Gotcha, sweetheart. This goes in the dining room, got it?" he says, smirking at me out of the corner of his mouth. I nod.

"MANNERS. Didn't Effie teach you that?" I joke as I grab the box of my father's books from the floor and head toward the bookshelf.

"Yeah, she did," Haymitch replies as he heads into the dining room. "Hey, sweetheart, do me a favor, would you?" I turn to him and plaster a shit-eating grin on my face. "Make this house a home, okay?" I nod in response.

"WHAT ABOUT CINNA'S CLOTHES?" I cry as Haymitch disappears into the dining room.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sure Lover Boy has a plan to get those clothes put away and you into his bed in no time at all," Haymitch snaps from the dining room. I hear him unpacking the china as he chuckles. Peeta is going to do all of the emotional work for me, I reckon.

"That's Peeta's problem, sweetheart," Haymitch mutters again, reminding me of the burden that I have to bear.

_And I'm scared to tread the red road that leads to Galilee—_

'_Cause I am my own ragged company._


	26. Chapter 26: The Only Exception

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _The Only Exception_ belongs to Paramore (and I don't care if I am an old spinster hag, I love them as much as a teenage fangirl, dammit).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta forces Katniss to go through Cinna's clothes, and Katniss learns a lot about her own path to healing in the process.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Well, I cried like a baby writing this chapter, because I love Cinna and Portia, and I love their relationships to and with Katniss and Peeta. Cinna and Portia were their friends, and I think that Katniss and Peeta both struggle with their memories and legacies. (I also firmly ship Cinna/Portia, so there's that.) Anyway, I think this would be very emotional for Katniss, but Peeta guilts her into it because he's right—she needs to do it sooner rather than later. Big-time lemons in the next chapter, darlings! Thanks for the support, reviews, and criticisms!

**Holla atcha guidette on Tumblr at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 26: _The Only Exception_

_When I was younger I saw my daddy cry_

_And curse at the wind._

_He broke his own heart and I watched_

_As he tried to reassemble it._

I feed the fire letters that I have no desire to read all day. The more boxes I go through, the more letters I find. Like Peeta had canvassed my house for letters while packing up my things and was intentionally rubbing them in my face. The fire consumes my mother, the way it consumed Gale—it consumes Plutarch and Paylor and a sticky note from Beetee. _Destruction before creation, _I remind myself coolly as the hot flames lick my fingers. I set aside letters from Johanna and Annie for later, back into the cigar box. It occurs to me that Effie Trinket was the only person beyond Twelve with whom I had regular contact, and that thought makes me sad for a brief moment. Haymitch and I quietly unpack everything—dishes, pots, pans, linens, books—only breaking our silence if one of us stub a toe or require more spiked cider. I feel my cheeks grow hot and flushed as I drank more hot bourbon. I stop unpacking my feelings, and start unpacking things. Things that belonged in Peeta's house. Our house. Eventually, Haymitch and his bourbon leave my company as the sun starts to go down behind the mountains, leaving me to Peeta and his devices.

Peeta finds me curled up on the couch as he bursts in through the front door, bearing fresh cinnamon buns. I narrow my Seam eyes at him, all the while staring into the roaring fire. He's whistling an unfamiliar tune as he heads to the kitchen, and I hear him chuckle as he discovers what remains of his cider.

He comes back into the living room with his own mug of cider, giving me a sly side-smile. _I won't look at him—you're angry, remember?_ I tell myself as he settles in next to me on the couch, surveying the room with its now-full bookcases. The moment he's next to me, I feel my body settle reflexively against his. _Good job being angry, brainless_, I think. So instead of pulling away or forming coherent words, I just let out a long, winded sigh. And a hiccup. (Day drinking really catches up with you, whew.) Peeta winds his arm around my shoulder.

_And my momma swore_

_That she would never let herself forget._

_And that was the day that I promised_

_I'd never sing of love if it does not exist._

"It looks like you made some progress today," he says, playing with the end of my braid between his fingers. I snort and roll my eyes. "Did Haymitch help?" I shrug. "Katniss, don't be stubborn—"

"I'm not being stubborn!" I snap, glaring at him. "I'm mad at you!" His hand falls from my hair and he looks truly clueless.

"Why? You live here. I got your stuff over here. What the hell's your problem?" Peeta hisses, turning his gaze to the fire. I shake my head.

"You just don't fucking get it, do you, Peeta?" I snarl, taking a deep sip of my drink. "And who gave you permission to go to _my house_ and go through_ my stuff_?" With that, he jerks away from me suddenly, his blue eyes burning with something that looks like confusion and rage.

"_You_ did, Katniss, when _you_ agreed to move in with _me,_" Peeta retorts, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a hard thud. I shake my head again, furiously.

"Peeta. I. Don't. Want. To. Go. Through. That. Stuff," I cry, pushing him away with both hands. "I'm not ready and I don't want to and _you_ can't make me." He just laughs in response, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "IT'S NOT MINE!" I cry, wishing he'd open his eyes.

_But darling,_

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

"Katniss, I'm not making you do anything that you don't want to do. You moved in with me. I thought that you were ready to move forward," he sighs, throwing his head back in defeat and twining his fingers through mine. He stops my impending tirade, just like that. I bite my lip, and take a sip of cider, measuring my words. I turn to him.

"Peeta!" I whine, turning to him, his eyes still closed and his head still back. "Peeta! I want to be here, I want to be with you. I just don't want to deal with that stuff right now!" I kiss him, lightly, tasting fresh bourbon on his lips. _He's spiked his, too_, I think, _what a troupe we all are._ He opens his eyes, eyelashes fluttering on cheekbones.

"You have to do it, eventually, Kat," he says deliberately, looking right at me, like he can peer into my soul with his eyes alone. "What's so bad about now?" I involuntarily jerk away from him, biting my bottom lip. _You're never going to be ready_, I know he wants to tell me. _None of us are ever prepared to deal with that which we've done._

"I'M JUST NOT READY!" I sob, with hot, wet tears spilling out of my eyes and down onto Peeta's chest. He shakes his head.

"You'll never be ready, Katniss," Peeta muses, swirling the spices in his mug. "None of us are ever FUCKING READY to deal with it. But we all have to, eventually. So what makes now so goddamn bad?" It's not in Peeta's nature to swear—he must be really frustrated with me.

_Maybe I know somewhere_

_Deep in my soul_

_That love never lasts._

_And we've got to find other ways_

_To make it alone._

_Or keep a straight face._

"Cinna," I whimper, taking his face in my hands, "Cinna. How can I go through Cinna's clothes without being reminded of him?" Peeta lets out a short cluck of his tongue.

"Portia," Peeta says under his breath. "PORTIA," he says again, grabbing both of my shoulders and shaking me. "You know, Katniss, sometimes you act like you're the only person in the history of the world who ever lost someone they loved!" I'm dumbstruck, trying to find my tongue in my mouth. Peeta clucks his tongue, and takes my chin in his hands. "Katniss," he hisses against my mouth, "I watched Portia die. I watched them torture her. First, they executed my prep team. Then, Caesar. And then, they tortured her to death in front of me. They ripped her hair out by the roots. Eyelashes, one by one. They shaved her skin off, piece by piece. And the whole time, I heard her screaming my name, begging them to spare me. Even in her last breaths, as she bled out on the floor, she begged them to take her and save me." His voice is so cold, and yet teaming with emotion.

I'm speechless; there's not to say. _How do you respond to that?_ I try to kiss him, and his lips are just out of my reach.

"I know that you love Cinna and that you miss him and you miss your friend. But don't you dare think for a minute that you are the only person hurting here," he finishes, his eyes wide and bottomless and open and evaluating mine. I sniffle.

"And there was no one here, when I got back to Twelve, to help me sort through Portia's clothes or my memories. To help me with the loss of my family. To help me remember the friends that I lost. To preserve the memory of my stylist and mentor and friend. You're not the only fire mutt here, Katniss," Peeta sighs, pulling my wet face against his shoulder. I didn't realize that I was crying like a small child until Peeta pulled me against him. His arms wrap around me—tracing my spine, the small of my back, the tendrils at my neck.

_And I've always lived like this,_

_Keeping a comfortable distance._

_And up until now I've sworn to myself_

_That I'm content with loneliness—_

_Because none of it was ever worth the risk._

"Let me help you, Katniss, please," he pleads, his eyes shut tight against my neck and my hands wind into his hair. "It'll be easier, it'll go faster, we can help each other," Peeta murmurs into my ear, and I nod.

"I should have helped you. I should have made more of an effort. I should have… been here," I muster dully, his heart beating into my chest. _Confess thy sins. _He shakes his head.

"It won't be so bad," he says, his voice cracking as his blue eyes gaze into my grey. I try to nod, and end up planting my mouth on his. He kisses me back, softly at first, then deeply—greedily.

"You always kiss me when you want to say 'yes' and don't know how to say it," Peeta muses. I attempt a smile. He pulls me into his embrace, showering my wet, hot, puffy, swollen face with light kisses. Before I know it, he's stood up and draped me over his shoulder, leaving the sofa and the warm fire behind us, hauling my ass up the stairs.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" I shout, trying to trash my legs, but Peeta has me tightly at the knees.

"Helping you," Peeta answers. Each and every step up the stairs hurts, and for a moment, I think I'm going to retch.

"Peeta!" I moan, "I'm going to throw up! I drank too much with Haymitch!" I argue, falling limp against his shoulders.

"Sounds like a personal problem, Kat," he sighs and sets me down against the wall. Next to the door to the room that I'm not allowed to go in. My head is swimming in bourbon and terror.

"I'm not allowed to go in that room," I say weakly. Peeta shakes his head.

"Of course you are. This is your house now. This is our room," Peeta counters gently. "This is our special room. It's where I come to think and sit, and mostly sit," he jokes, trying to break the tedium. I make my rabbit face at him.

"I'm afraid," I whisper. The bourbon clouds my brain.

"Why? It's just you and me. We already came out of two arenas and a war. There's not much left that can scare you," Peeta whispers back, opening the door behind me and beckoning me in. The last rays of the sun are illuminating every wall.

_Well you are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

Peeta has painted this room to match the arena of the Third Quarter Quell; the bottom of the wall is deep magenta and it fades up into cotton candy pink, and the ceiling is the sky—light mimosa pink wisps of clouds. He has arranged two great armchairs by the window that faces the mountains, a conversational coffee table between them. One side of the room is almost entirely mirrored, against the doors of what must be his closet. _This would make a lovely nursery_, I think to myself, squeezing his hand. Peeta answers my unvoiced questions himself.

"This is the first room I painted when I got home, after I planted the primroses. Dr. Aurelius says painting will help me heal. And as angry as I was about the Quell, all I could think about was how beautiful the island was, and how we had a few fleeting moments of happiness there. I'm at peace here; here, before they hijacked me and scorched us beyond belief. But not beyond recognition," Peeta explains.

"It's peaceful," I mutter. He nods.

"That's the idea," Peeta says. "I come here to reflect. To think about the Games. To think about the war. I keep all of my things from the Games in here, Katniss. You can, too," he continues, pointing at the two wardrobes from my old house. "Dr. A says it's important to compartmentalize," Peeta finishes. I know exactly what he means. _Keep things separate. Real from not real_. "You can come here too, Kat."

I see my—Cinna's—trunks sitting on the floor, unopened. I take a deep breath, and lean back against Peeta's chest.

"Together?" I choke.

"Together," Peeta smiles against the back of my head.

"I want this to be fast, okay, Peeta? Like ripping off a bandage," I hiss, moving toward the trunks. He nods.

"Quick. Fast. Not adhesive. Gotcha," he replies.

_I've got a tight grip on reality,_

_But I can't let go of what's in front of me here._

_I know you're leaving in the morning_

_When you wake up._

_Leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream._

The first trunk is easy—it's full of my ball gowns and wedding dresses, neatly encased in plastic garment bags, with hangers poking out of the top. No need to open them to know what lies within. Easy. I instruct Peeta to just HANG those in the wardrobes; no need to open old wounds and try them on. They're just like doll clothes, pressed and put out for display. I swallow back thinking of how hard Cinna worked on them—the hours of sketching and stitching and sequinning. Now, it's hard.

Peeta rubs my back as I collapse in tears on the empty trunk.

"Sssh, Katniss, it's alright. Cinna and Portia—they wanted us to have these things. They wanted us to feel our best, to make a good impression," Peeta soothes, rubbing circles on my back. I shudder.

"We don't need to impress anyone anymore, Peeta," I cry softly. He tenses.

"Sure we do, Katniss. We were Tributes. We're Victors. We survived. No one can take that away from us. We still need to look our best," Peeta retorts. _Remember, this is hard on him, too_, I remind myself.

I take in a deep breath to steady myself.

"What's the use, Peeta? I don't want to disappoint Cinna if I don't look my best," I sigh, pushing the empty trunk away with my feet. Peeta shakes me to my senses.

"Katniss!" he says with fervor, "This is it—this is Cinna's legacy. This is what he left you. Don't waste it!" I shake my head.

"Cinna didn't just want me to be a pin-up, Peeta," I sniff.

"NO! He didn't! He wanted you to be confident and beautiful and powerful and strong, and he helped you the only way he knew how!" Peeta cries, matching my emotion with his own.

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

"I know," I reply, as I open the second trunk. The trunk that contains clothes that I might actually wear.

"Cinna and Portia wanted us to LIVE, goddamit," Peeta sighs, running his hands though his hair across his forehead. _Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss._ He holds up the dress I wore on tour, in Eleven—the one with the pretty fall leaves. I burst into tears at the very thought of Cinna picking out the fabric.

"Wearing _their _creations honors _their _legacy," Peeta says, firmly, wrapping me into his arms. "_They_ would want us to wear them, Katniss." _I'm not so sure about that_, I think, but then I remember how much care and thought and time and effort went into these garments, and I realize Peeta's right—Cinna and Portia designed these clothes so that Peeta and me might actually use them and wear them and put them to good use. _Waste not, want not_, my father once told me.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Peeta," is the best reply I can give him. He rolls his eyes.

"You could wear this here, Katniss!" Peeta pleads with me. I shake.

"No—I can't! I won't!" I choke on my own words. Wearing these clothes would be like wearing Cinna's skin as my own like a pelt. Peeta disagrees with me. The dress stays. So do all of the other pretty sundresses and day dresses designed by Cinna's hands. Into pile they go without my arguments.

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

"They don't even fit anymore, Peeta," I say emptily, holding up a bright pink sundress with tiny black polka dots. Peeta cracks a smile.

"They fit better the more you fill out, Kat. My cheese buns will see to that," Peeta answers cheekily.

"It's stupid to look nice when we live in abject poverty," I say loudly, holding up a slinky black cocktail dress. Peeta smirks.

"We might have dinner parties sometime, Katniss. District Twelve—the times, they are a'changin'," Peeta hums. I make my rabbit face in reply. "What would Cinna say?" Peeta asks seriously. My bitch face falls.

"He'd tell us to look our best, to look nice… to make a good impression," I say dryly. _I fucking hate it when he's right._ We continue to go through the trunk. Skirts, tops, sweaters, dresses, pants, slacks—they all go into the pile destined for the wardrobe in our room. _Things Cinna would want you to use_, I say to myself on bated breath.

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

"Be practical," Peeta reminds me as we sort through the trunks. _He's right_, I decide, _there's no reason why I can't wear these clothes now, save my pride and memories_. I don't have anything to say as we open the third trunk and find a treasure trove of warm jackets and coats and furs and hats and scarves and gloves. Peeta pitches everything down to the bottom of the stairs, telling us that we'll put them in the mudroom tomorrow. The same rule applies to the shoes—flats, boots, and reasonable dress shoes go in one pile, and the high heels and sandals into another. Every iota of pride has been dispensed with in one fell swoop.

"I don't like sandals. They're weird," I tell Peeta. "I don't like my toes." He laughs.

"Summer is hot," Peeta reminds me. He wins this round.

The fourth trunk is my least favorite for any number of reasons; wedding dresses—those I can deal with. Underwear? Not so much. The last trunk is full of my fancy underwear and lingerie and nightgowns and pyjamas. I know Peeta will enjoy going through it—me, not so much. I feign sudden illness to sink into a chair.

"We're nearly done," Peeta says, kissing the tip of my nose.

"I know," I sigh heavily, "but Peet, I'll never need these." I hold out a pair of lacy red panties, rolling my eyes. Peeta leans in to kiss me on the mouth, deep, with his tongue.

"What if I told you that _I_ like them?" he says into my lips. I'm speechless.

"You win this round?" I reply, pressing the panties into his hand, sinking to the floor, making my way to the trunk. "I guess it's fine if I wear this stuff, it's nothing special," I dryly say, tossing underwear and bras left and right. "I know you're enjoying this," I add wryly. He giggles.

"You can try to live in sweatpants, Katniss. But eventually, someone is going to judge you. That person would be Effie," Peeta hums. Everything that needs to be sorted has been sorted, and sits in a chaotic pile on the bamboo floor.

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

_You are the only exception._

One last thing sits in that trunk. I let out a deep sigh, and Peeta goes over and pulls it out. It's my jewelry box. The lovely mahogany box with the mockingjay and my initials embossed in gold on top. The box that holds all of the jewelry that has ever been in my possession—save the pin, my locket, and Peeta's pearl. The jewelry that is entitled to every Victor. Gifts from the Capitol. Gifts from sponsors. Gifts from people who have never even met me or laid eyes upon my scrawny ass in person. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, broaches, hair pins, rings. Precious stones. Lots of amber and pearls and gold and silver. Nothing that looks appropriate on a fire mutt. Jewels and bobbles that would look nice on a girl from District One or the Capitol, but not the Girl on Fire from Twelve.

I shake my head. "No, Peeta. It's not mine," I sigh. He raises an eyebrow.

"Then whose is it? It sure looks like yours," he says, testily. I shake harder.

"Prim's," I shake. Prim. She loved to go through this box. She tried on every piece and gazed upon her beauty in the mirror and pretended to be a fairy princess. Her favorite story was the little girl with long braids who was locked in a tower and then rescued by a handsome prince. "He's just like Peeta, the prince!" she'd laugh, and try to put jewelry on me, and I'd oblige her. _This is her jewelry,_ I think. _It's not mine to wear_. Peeta nods slowly, taking me into his arms, letting me breathe into his shoulder as my hands shake violently against the box.

"Okay," Peeta breathes against my hair. "It's Prim's. Let's keep it in our room, close to us, okay? Then—whenever you want to—you can have it close to you and go through it and be with her, okay?" _Compromise is the key to a happy marriage_, I remember my father telling me once, one day after he and my mother got into a shouting match. "She'd want you to wear them. Dress up. Cinna and Portia—they would tell you that every outfit is only perfected by accessories. Let Prim and Cinna guide you," Peeta coos. I nod. We stand.

"We're done?" I ask. Peeta stacks the empty trunks by the door.

"If you put your clothes away in our room tomorrow, I'll put the trunks in the basement—deal?" Peeta barters. I nod, sharply.

"Deal," I agree. Peeta wraps his arms around my waist, and my hands find themselves in his soft hair.

"Thank you," I whisper into his chest; his sweater smells like yeast.

"Do you want your reward?" Peeta says, shyly, opening the door. _Reward? What, a reward for being a functioning human being?_ I think. He smiles at me in the dim light.

"Yes," I whisper, my hands playing across his broad chest, splaying across his shoulders as I give in.

_And I'm on my way to believing._

_Oh, and I'm on my way to believing._


	27. Chapter 27: Come Home

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Come Home_ belongs to Ryan Adams (seriously, _Ashes & Fire_ is a soundtrack to Peeta and Katniss' recovery).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta wants to try something new with Katniss. In the bedroom. If you get my drift.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **After all the ugly sobbing in the last chapter, I just wanted to write some porn with content (as opposed to porn without plot). So this is just that: straight-up smut. When will Katniss ever stop owing Peeta (in the best way possible, natch)? Read, enjoy, and review, as always! Thank you from the bottom of my lewd little heart!

**Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 27: _Come Home_

_You built this house;_

_You built it stone by stone, _

_Hammer in your hand—_

_You built this home._

_A reward? A present? A surprise? Just for acting like a human being?_ I think as Peeta pushes my body up against the wall with his own, trailing hot kisses along my neck with his mouth.

"Why, Peeta?" I mumble, wrapping my legs around his waist. He responds with a kiss.

"Just. Because. I. Can," he replies, each word punctuated by a kiss. I bite his tongue playfully. "You behaved, as requested with minimal resistance. Good behavior is to be rewarded. Positive. Reinforcement." His erection presses eagerly into my hip, and I wonder just who is being rewarded for good behavior here.

"Who told you that—Aurelius? Haymitch? Effie?" I breathe into his ear. He chuckles, his hands sending tingles across my back, down to my sacred place.

"You want your present or not?" he teases me with his tongue, carrying us to the door of our real bedroom. I nod against his forehead, and he turns the knob. We enter our bedroom with the giant, soft bed for the first time in weeks. Peeta turns the lights on; I can now see why Peeta extradited us to the guest room; he's painted me a forest. _My forest_.

_This house is strong;_

_You raised it with your love,_

_A shelter from the winds,_

_From the cold and dark._

Every wall is sprouting trees—the trees we've been painting in the plant book. Trees growing out of the baseboards—maple and oak and ash and chestnut and birch and pine and cedar. I can almost smell the green leaves and sap, and my eyes trail up to the ceiling, which is now the forest canopy. A collage of leaves—every leaf I've ever seen or found and recounted to Peeta. Each bark is different. Every little leaf is detailed—no two leaves are the same. _The leaves of District Twelve_.

"When the sun shines, it looks like the golden light is pouring through the leaves. But when the moon hangs, it looks like silver light is coming down through the leaves," Peeta explains, weaving his hands across my stomach, guiding me to our bed.

"You are a good listener, Peeta," I say quietly, finally. He presses me down, taking my cheeks in his hands.

"A wise guy once told me that you only smile in the woods," he replies quietly. I smile and shake my head. _Empirically false, Wonder Boy!_

"I smile when I'm with you, Peeta," I sing against his lips. Peeta makes quick work of my hoodie and sweatpants as I struggle to free his sweater and undershirt from his pants. _Grace and beauty under pressure, Katniss_, I think. He kisses my breasts through my thin tank top and I moan beneath him.

"Thank you, Peeta," I kiss, "it's more than I could have imagined—let alone asked for. Thanks." His tongue swipes across my front teeth.

"Does it make you happy?" he says fervently into my mouth. I nod, needlessly rocking my hips against his. _Patience, you'll get yours, girl on fire._

"I love it, Peet," I sigh hotly into his neck as he winds my pants down my legs with his impossibly long arms. "Not as much as I love you…" His kisses follow my pants.

"I know," Peeta sighs against my belly button. I knot my hand into his blond hair as his hands come up and rest upon my pert breasts, momentarily squeezing them possessively.

_And nobody has to cry to make it seem real._

_And nobody has to hide the way that they feel._

_If you stay right here, tomorrow you'll be fine._

_I will be here for you standing by your side._

A thought seizes me without rhyme or reason. "Peeta?" I hiss as his mouth makes sloppy circles on my stomach as his hands drive my thighs apart.

"Mmm? I'm busy, Katniss, can't you see? Can it wait? Unless it's important?" Peeta says into my stomach. I pull him up to my lips by catching my arms under his armpits and literally dragging him away.

"Peeta!" I exclaim once his mouth is upon mine again. His expression is confused, at best. I shake my head as playfully as I can.

"Peeta—I don't want us to say 'I know' in response to 'I love you' anymore, okay?" I ask. I sound silly. I sound ridiculous. I sound demanding and petty and manipulative. _I don't give a fuck_. He nods furiously in response.

"Okay, Katniss, I won't—promise," he breathes into my ear. His tongue flicks it, and I tremble beneath him.

"Katniss," Peeta moans, returning to my mouth, his hands sliding my hips down and his fingers hooking into my panties. We're breathless. "Katniss, I want to do something," he continues to moan, working his hands between my legs. I look at him, confused as to what exactly he wants to do to me—haven't we done most everything by now? Peeta starts to kiss down my body, stopping to suck my nipples in order to draw wetness from my core; my hands are helplessly wrapped around his neck. He kisses lower, down my stomach, around my belly button, and I watch his head go between my thighs as my breath catches in my throat.

"Peeta," I croak as his mouth kisses my thighs urgently, "Peeta! What are you doing?" He takes this moment to wrap his arms about my thighs and pull me closer to his mouth. I swallow. Hard.

_So come home, come home._

_You built those walls _

_To hide your fears inside._

_We were younger then—_

_It's safe now to come outside._

Peeta brings his hot rosebud of a mouth to my womanhood and plants his lips on mine. I throw myself back into the pillows as his mouth makes quick work and finds my nub, rolling it into his tongue. I'm powerless—he feels so good, and yet—I'm terrified. _Why is he doing this? I'm so embarrassed! _My brain tells me. _But I don't want him to stop!_

"NO, PEETA! STOP!" I shriek, and I don't particularly care if I woke Haymitch. "PEETA, STOP IT—DON'T KISS ME WHERE I PEE! I PEE THERE!" I argue loudly, uselessly—it feels too good for him to stop, kissing me in the place where the sun doesn't shine. His tongue slips between my folds, exploring each one the way he explores my mouth when he kisses me. I bite down on my lip and my hips buck against him. I inadvertently try to shut my legs on his head, locking down on his tousled blond locks settled between my legs, but his firm hands keep my thighs apart. A deep moan emerges from my throat.

"Katniss, please, let me try it. I want to taste you. If you don't like it, I'll stop," Peeta says against my core, his lips mouthing the words on my slit. I just moan and arch back again, and a throaty moan escapes my mouth as Peeta presses forth. _I can't take my eyes off his jaw line._

_We built this home _

_On this little piece of land._

_The sky above is dark,_

_No rain comes in._

"Please," I say, and it's a "yes" as my hands dig into his hair, pressing him into me further. I feel him smile against my slick skin, as his tongue darts between my folds, finding every nook and cranny, and tasting me. His hands are the only thing stopping my legs from crushing his head between my thighs and holding him there. Peeta takes a deep breath, and pulls my hot bundle of nerves into his mouth, onto his tongue. I wail wildly and my hips thrash against him. He puts one hand on my stomach to keep me down as he focuses on my nub. I feel his teeth nip lightly, then his lips spread mine and his teeth follow.

"Ouch, Peeta, that hurts," I whimper, clutching his hair in my fingers. It still feels so good—so impossibly good. _How can this be real?_

He blushes between my legs, and I feel it on my thighs. "I'm sorry, Katniss, you just taste so good… I've never done this before. I'll get better with practice." And he goes back to work with his tongue and lips, worshipping my slit and nub and core—tasting me. _I knew I was his first for everything! _I think triumphantly, before my teeth tear into my bottom lip and I fall back into our pillows, arching my back with pleasure. His breath upon my most sensitive skin is driving me crazy, and his wet mouth at my wet core is overwhelming. Pressure is building within me, and I can feel my tumescence upon Peeta's jaw between my legs. _I hope he doesn't drown! _I think for a brief moment before spiraling into intense pleasure and hot color washes over my eyes.

Peeta has flicked his tongue _into me_, and he's inside of me in an entirely new way.

"Don't stop…," I moan as my hips buck against his mouth, and his mouth holds me down. His tongue is inside of me—inside my core—and his lips are working my lips, and I'm so hot and wet and mindless, and all I can think about is Peeta. His tongue slides up and down my walls, taking his time, and then hurrying up as it curls within me. I clamp my hands over my eyes—I can't bear to watch him. Yet I want to watch his hard work. _Curiosity got the cat_. But I find myself peering down at him from between my fingers as he works so intricately against me, watching his tongue flick in and out, against me, my pink flesh, his blond hair against my dark curls. He peers up at me, my eyes looking down at him between my fingers, with his hot, dark blue eyes, and our gazes lock.

"Watch me, Katniss," he says huskily, his mouth exploring my folds before my eyes. I shake my head, but continue to watch between my fingers as he builds the pressure within my core. I never thought I could respond to his mouth this way, and yet, here we are: my hips are rising to meet his tongue, and he's teasing my folds, and I can't form coherent words, and it feels like every pressure I've ever felt is building within my core from the outside in as he devours me. It's almost like his fingers can go _even deeper_ with his mouth there. I'm arching my back like I'm pulling back the string of a bow, but it's Peeta drawing the strings as the coil builds within.

_And nobody has to cry to make it seem real._

_And nobody has to hide the way that they feel._

_If you stay right here, tomorrow you'll be fine._

_I will be here for you standing by your side._

"Peeta," I flail weakly, pulling at his hair. "I'm so close, Peeta…" He smiles into my core, and I feel his mouth break into a grin against my slit.

"Let go, Kat," he says simply, kissing my core before driving his tongue deep inside of me, coupled with his finger. With his fingers and his tongue working my core and my nub, I'm putty in his hands. My hands leave his hair, and I drag them into my own locks, pushing my hips against his hands as he holds me down. His finger and tongue are rolling my pearl into a crazed frenzy, and my core is dripping with come as I feel the wave that was coming wash over me, leaving me breathless. His fingers come to a stop and his tongue pulls out, and through my hazy fingers, I can see him lap up my come as I let out a loud, guttural shudder.

He comes to rest between my legs, his left cheek resting with a satisfied smirk on my right thigh. "You taste delicious, Katniss." _I should hope so, you just ate me alive_! I think.

"I'm so relieved, Peeta," is all I can say as he begins to kiss his way up to my mouth. He's hot and sweaty—against my hot and sweaty skin as I trail my hands down his back and he leaves tiny marks on my neck and collarbone.

"Relieved?" Peeta laughs into my ear. "Did you like that, Katniss?" One of his hands dips back between my legs, into my folds, slipping between my lips into my core. I nod against him. "Tell me!" he commands, curling his fingers inside me.

"Yes!" (against my better judgment) I hiss as I drag his mouth to mine. Peeta gives in, and I get a little taste of myself—even though he was considerate enough to kiss most of it off on my skin. Now I can clearly feel his erection pressed against my stomach, aligned perfectly between my thighs to my core. His free hand brushes my hair off my forehead, and kisses me deeply.

_As the storm grows stronger, deeper, and wide,_

_My faith's a winding river with no riverside._

_As the years grow longer, I will be here by your side._

_Ashes to dust and stone by stone, _

_Forever I will always be your love._

"Katniss?" Peeta moans into my lips, licking them in anticipation.

"Peeta!" I cry, driving my hips into his. He smiles into our kiss, his hand guiding his penis to my womanhood, and slipping in with minimal effort or pain. It's one fell movement, and I can feel him inside of me the moment he's buried to his base. _You got yours, girl on fire, let him get his_, I tell myself as my hips start to rock against his and my lips nip at his. "More!" a husky voice demands, and I realize that it's mine.

The pressure within starts to build as we build a comfortable rhythm; he pushes in, and I pull back, until he withdraws, and my walls beseech him to return to my depths. Our hips rock and roll, thrust and push, and I can feel my legs lock themselves in place behind his smooth knees. _The only part of his body that is truly smooth_, I think, _and only I know that._

Peeta's lips never leave mine, and his mouth mimics the motions of his member deep inside of me. He's reached the bundle of nerves that push me over the edge, so to speak. So close to my cervix, his member pulsates and throbs against my walls, his bloodflow matching mine (as I struggle to keep up with him). I contract and constrict around him, trying to keep in place against the place where I come, tightening around him—knowing this makes it even harder for him to hold on.

_Nobody has to cry to make it seem real._

_Nobody has to hide the way that they feel._

_If you stay right here tomorrow you'll be fine._

_I will be here for you standing by your side._

_So come home, come home._

"Faster, Peeta!" I moan, dragging my hands though his hair as his mouth ravishes mine. He responds in kind, increasing the pace, but only making my hunger greater.

"Better?" Peeta groans into my breasts, burying his face in the valley of my breasts as his hips strain against mine. I nod—barely. I feel another moan escape my mouth as my walls start to come down.

"Harder, Peeta!" I demand, and he obliges, pulling away to center himself and then burying his face in my neck as my core met his base with increasing frequency. Driving into me.

"Deeper, Peeta…," I wail, and his thrusts even out against my nub as his lips still mine. I cry into his mouth as he unrelentingly hits my spot, his penis throbbing against my walls, and me employing every muscle in my body to keep it there. He cups my breasts, kneading them under his practice hands, my nipples pebbling against the contact with his skin.

"Katniss, you're so wet and tight…," Peeta sighs into my mouth as his body finds what it wants within mine. "Not much longer, Katni— …" Every wall in my body is down and I violently shudder against him as I find my release again and come violently, skin against skin, nerve on nerve. But Peeta is right there with me now, and he empties himself inside of me, his penis convulsing with my walls, spilling his seed as I drown him in tumescence.

_So come home, come home._

_You built those walls _

_To hide your fears inside._

_We were younger then—_

_It's safe now to come outside._

"You always know just what I need, Katniss," Peeta murmurs with a self-satisfied grin against my forehead as my vaginal muscles struggle to keep him inside of me. My lips desperately seek out his, and he gives in, only to pull out of me. I wail meekly, my hands going around his neck as he kisses me down to my breasts, and then back.

"Peeta," I sigh, as he falls to my side and pulls me into his tight, hot, sweaty embrace. With a free hand, he turns off the lights, and I see his cameo skin bathed in moonlight. I must be delirious, because I'm shaking and shuddering, and Peeta eclipses me with his arms and shoulders.

"Happy, healthy, breathing?" he mutters into my hair as I trace the words on his skin in the dark. I nod.

"Yes. I love you, Peeta," I say with a shaky voice.

"Always, Katniss—I love you," Peeta replies with a hot kiss into my hair. I settle into a well-earned slumber in our new bedroom with a contented huff.

_Nobody has to cry to make it seem real._

_Nobody has to hide the way that they feel. _

_If you stay right here tomorrow you'll be fine._

_I will be here for you standing by your side._

_So come home, come home._


	28. Chapter 28: Burn to Shine

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Burn to Shine_ belongs to Ben Harper (seriously, start listening to him, he's awesome! If you aren't, I don't know what you are doing with your life!)

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Winter is coming—Katniss is nesting, Peeta is painting, and they make some important decisions regarding life in the Victors' Village.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **This is Peeta and Katniss' first winter together, and I want to show how Katniss is still kind of worried about survival in Twelve. Luckily, she has Peeta, so she'll be fine! This chapter is a lot of Peeniss fluff, but I wanted to write in some Greasy Sae, so here it is. Read, enjoy, review—thanks so much for all of your support! Lemons to come the chapter after next, bwah ha ha.

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 28: _Burn to Shine_

_We made love until we cried and cried ourselves to laughter,_

_Laughed until we realized our hearts were struck with fear. _

_How in just a moment's time could one see forever after?_

_I gently lie beside of you and dream away my tears._

Over the next few weeks, Peeta works in his spare on transforming the spare bedroom in a guest room; he paints the walls periwinkle blue with amethyst moulding, and little lavender stencils crowning the ceiling. We order a cream eyelet duvet and linens and curtains from the Capitol via Effie, and Peeta frames the fireplace in mantle of misshapen amethyst stones. Peeta hangs his favorite wildflower pictures on the walls, and arranges Prim's books. It looks like the perfect room for a teenage girl—for Prim. My breath still hitches in my throat as I walk by its door.

While Peeta paints, I'm frantically preparing for winter. After our long Indian summer, winter came hard and fast and deep. I keep thinking of a book that my father read to me when I was small—_Gone with the Wind_, I think—and a character named Ashley who came home from a war and told his lover that the snows in Virginia come hard and fast and deep. It makes me think of winter in District Twelve. _Maybe that WAS District Twelve, before the Dark Days, _I wonder. This only makes me more determined to prepare for winter.

_Won't you let me treat you kind? _

_We're gonna burn to shine._

_Won't you let me treat you kind?_

_We're gonna burn to shine._

So while Peeta paints and transforms our house into a home, I'm in the kitchen. I'm making fruit preserves and jams, apple butter, pumpkin butter, almond butter—this is the only domestic thing my mother taught me to do. She taught me how to stock up for the winter. I pickle vegetables in sweet, salty vinegars, and salt and dry fish and venison and rabbit and squirrel and pork belly. Haymitch likes the come by and chomp on some salted cod while sucking down cold beers; he reminds me of my father after a long day in the mines. I pickle the cod and herring and trout and pike, knowing that Peeta will wrinkle his nose at the smell, but it won't be so bad in a stew. He mostly dislikes the pickled mushrooms, so I try to dry some, too. Sometimes Greasy Sae brings by some fresh lard, and I soak it in brine until it has the consistency of butter and we can spread it on bread. _Necessity is indeed the mother of invention_. Peeta's basement and kitchen have been turned into a pickling/preservation factory.

Sometimes Peeta will come downstairs, his face streaked with light purple, and laugh and shake his head at me.

_Funny things you learn from your mama— _

_Like the way to throw your head back when your swallow your pills._

_Funny things you learn from your papa—_

_Like when you're talking you just can't keep your hands still._

"What are you doing, Katniss?" he says, leaning against the counter, picking at some salted rabbit.

"Winter is coming," I mutter, stirring the applesauce on the stove. Peeta chuckles.

"Winter is _here._ What's the matter with you?"

I purse my lips and make a face in his general direction. "I won't let us starve, Peeta," I mumble. He shakes his head at me.

"I'm a baker, Katniss. That's my job. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were nesting."

"_Nesting?"_ I retort, laughing in disbelief. "Katniss Everdeen doesn't _nest_, Peeta Mellark." He shrugs those big shoulders of his, moving closer to me."I think she does," he says, kissing my lips, nibbling on my bottom, pulling me flush against him. I don't even try to push him away, he smells like fresh paint and cool mountain air and wood chips.

"Maybe she is," I reply quietly into our kiss, pressing my hands into the vast expanse of his chest. Peeta signs and kisses the top of my forehead.

_But that was now and this is then,_

_It never lasts for long._

_How I miss the good old days—_

_But I'm so glad they're gone_

"We need to talk, Kat."

"About what?" I bury my face in the crook of his neck.

"Well, you've moved out of your house. We have to tell the post office to redirect your mail. And now there are ten empty houses in the Victor's Village," Peeta states in a matter-of-fact way. I plant tiny kisses on his neck, hoping to distract him. But he's not one to be dissuaded this afternoon.

"Katniss," Peeta purrs into my good ear, "I think we should let other people—families—move into the other houses, okay?" It's hard to argue with this argument—winter has arrived, and there aren't nearly enough sturdy houses for the families returning to Twelve. It's the least we can do.

"Did you talk to Haymitch?" I ask. He nods. "Okay. It's such a waste of electricity and water and space if we don't open them up…," I muse. "But Peeta, our people don't like taking charity…"

_Won't you let me treat you kind? _

_We're gonna burn to shine._

_Won't you let me treat you kind?_

_We're gonna burn to shine._

"It's not charity," Peeta answers firmly, "it's common sense and good-will. We have to help one another, Katniss."

Peeta is right; people will see the reason, and they might accept our offer grudgingly, but they're not stupid, so they'll take it. "I think it's a lovely idea, Peeta," I whisper against him.

"It'll be nice to have some normal neighbors," Peeta jokes, undoing my braid with his free hand. "To hear the laughter of children, music, conversation… not just geese." I kiss his cheek, signaling my agreement.

"Why are you so much nicer than me, Peeta?" I huff. He shrugs.

"What do you mean?" he says quizzically. "You were thinking the same thing, I just said it first." _Good, kind, sweet, thoughtful Peeta, always beating me to the punch. _I nod again and break away from his embrace, returning to the bubbling pot of apples on the stove. "We'll take care of it in town tomorrow, okay?" I say. Peeta gives me a deep kiss before dipping a finger into the applesauce and sticking it in his mouth.

"Mmm, applesauce, my favorite," he growls into my ear as he heads upstairs again.

_I'd like to spend the time that you would like to spend with me _

_So that you could help me out with my dependency._

_'Cause I'm hopelessly addicted, addicted to your sorrow—_

_Makes me never wanna work, beg or borrow._

Later that evening, Greasy Sae and her little granddaughter and Haymitch all come over for dinner. Peeta and I give Sae's granddaughter Prim's old toys, and Peeta spends the rest of the evening on the floor in front of the fireplace, playing Cowboys and Indians with Sae's little one. He looks so happy, the firelight dancing across his face and lighting his golden hair, and her little giggles are enough to melt anyone's heart. Sae and me are curled up on the couch.

"Thank you, girl," Sae says, taking a deep sip of her special cranberry wine. I smile, wrapping my arms around my knees, watching Peeta. Haymitch has long fallen asleep in the arm chair, his snores coming out as light hums, clutching a knife in his hand.

"It's my pleasure, Sae, you've done so much for me. I should be thanking you," I reply, sipping my own wine and shooting her the briefest of grins. "I'm glad that another kid will get to enjoy these toys," I add for good measure. Sae nods. She's not one for many words.

"Peeta is going to be a good parent, Katniss," she says deliberately. I smirk.

"Not you too, Sae?" I crack, biting my bottom lip. _Please don't nag me about making babies, too. _She looks at me with amusement. "Of course, Peeta's going to be a great dad…," I mumble into my mug, "eventually."

"Take your time, girl." Something in her tone makes me think that Sae must have once been a young girl, without children or grandchildren, and that she too had been free and light. _I wonder what she was like, when she was young_.

"We're going to give the rest of the houses in Victor's Village to the District," I continue, hoping to change the subject.

"Good. A lot of families need places to live right now. This winter promises to be an especially miserable one," Sae responds. That's why I like Sae: she cuts to the chase. "People will remember that kindness, girl. They like you and the boy," she gestures toward Peeta, who is letting her granddaughter climb him like a tree.

Peeta grins wildly. "My ears are burning! Is someone talking about me?" he shouts as he easily catches the little one in his arms as she tumbles off his shoulders. I roll my eyes.

"Not every conversation is about you, Peeta," I reply loudly. Sae lets out a rare laugh.

"You look good, girl. The boy, too," she says, finishing her wine.

"Thank you," I whisper, squeezing her gnarled hand with my own. She squeezes back. We keep watching Peeta and the little one play, and I can't help but think that Peeta makes a terrible Indian, but a good dad.

_Won't you let me treat you kind? _

_We're gonna burn to shine._

_Won't you let me treat you kind?_

_We're gonna burn to shine_.


	29. Chapter 29: I've Got This Friend

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _I've Got This Friend_ belongs to The Civil Wars (this song is about Delly and Thom, y'all!).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, **Alaina Downs, **and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss heads into town, runs into Delly, and makes some quick decisions abotu Peeta, catching him off-guard.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **This chapter was fun to write— a lot happens between Delly and Katniss, and obviously, Katniss needs a girlfriend. So, I see Delly kind of being Katniss' sister (after all, she calls Peeta her brother!) This is a fun, girl-talk chapter. Smut, lemons, and sex in the chapter after next, darlings! I promise—it's just that I plan on writing one chapter, and then they turn into three, hehehe. Please read, review, comment, and enjoy as always! GRAZIE!

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 29: _I've Got This Friend_

_I've got this friend—_

_I don't think you know him—_

_He's not much for words,_

_He's hid in his hardened_ way.

I creep out of bed the next morning (Peeta's been long gone, baking extra bread ahead of a nasty early winter storm), bow and arrow at my side, and the replies to Johanna's letters tucked under my arm. Snow has been falling steadily for a good week now, and it comes up to my knees. When I was little, my father used to let me tunnel underneath the snow and build icy labyrinths under the Seam, but I find that inappropriate now as I head into town. I carry the box bearing my mother and Prim's things. I'm gritting my teeth and grinding my jaw and I can hardly imagine that my expression is anything except raging.

I am taking their things to the Hob, to donate them to charity, to get them out of my sight and my mind. I know it is futile for me, but Peeta and Dr. Aurelius insist. Peeta even reminds me that I was trying to trade Prim's baby clothes away before he tossed me the burned bread so long ago. I feel almost as desperate now as I did then, but its not because I'm hungry and terrified and worried that what remains of my family will be ripped apart, but rather, I ask myself, _"will someone else love Prim's things as much as we did?" _Peeta assures me that they will; it's time to let someone else enjoy the comforts of Prim. I hate how he is always right. But he was right—he was right when I saw Sae's little granddaughter playing with Prim's old toys, the little things bringing her such pleasure, and I realized I couldn't torture myself anymore with the memories of Prim's childhood.

_Oh, I've got this friend—_

_A loveless romantic—_

_All that he really wants_

_Is someone to want him back._

_They're just trinkets, Katniss, they're not Prim_, I hear Peeta tell me in my head, as I take deep breaths to steady myself as I get bogged down in the deep snowdrifts. My lungs are burning from the cold, and it's such an invigorating feeling that I almost forget that District Twelve is indeed in danger of being snowed in for several months.

I plow into the Hob, like a bull in a china shop, and I start knocking the snow off my boots against the doorframe. I see that other people have had the same idea, and pools of water dot the pristine parquet floors of the new Hob. Sunlight can't stream down from the skylights today because they are blocked with snow, and it's dim inside compared the to bright white blizzard swirling around us outside. As I try to knock my boots and gloves free from the snow, my hat slips down over my eyes, and I nearly drop the box of Prim and my mother's clothes onto the floor, until I hear a feminine giggle and feel strong arms holding the box beneath me.

_Oh, if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, If the right one came, along._

A friendly hand pushes my hat up off my forehead. "Hey, Katniss!" Delly Cartwright chirps brightly, helping me with the box and my hat. She's looking right at me with those bright chocolate brown eyes of hers. She looks relatively warm and dry, like she's been here all morning, watching us fools rush in and out of the snow. "How's it going? Quite a storm out there?" she asks after I regain my footing.

"Hi, Delly, I'm okay, how are you?" I say gingerly. I'm holding onto the box of clothes for dear life. She smiles at me, disarming me immediately.

"I'm good—my brother is coming next week!" Delly replies, with excitement creeping into her plump cheeks. I can tell that she's simply been dying to tell _somebody_.

"That's great, Delly, I'm sure you've missed him," I say, trying to impart a degree of warmth into my words. _I'm so jealous that her brother can come home, and Prim can't_, I think, and my heart aches. Delly watches my face fall.

"I have, Katniss. I didn't want him to come here until school was opened, and until I got assigned housing in town…," Delly explains, her eyelashes falling to the floor, but her eyes peering down at me. I shake my head.

"It's okay, Delly, I'm happy for you. If your brother is coming, that means things around here are getting back to normal. And I'm glad he's getting here before the snow get much deeper," I answer. Delly giggles.

_I've got this friend—_

_I don't think you know her—_

_She sings a simple song,_

_It sounds a lot like his._

"Thanks, Katniss. How are you and Peeta?" she says, almost flirtatiously. _Delly Cartwright would flirt with a rock_, I remember Madge telling me one day in middle school.

"Um, we're good. You should come over for dinner sometime, Delly," I respond cautiously, clinging tighter to the box of clothes, like it's a lifejacket.

She smiles warmly at me; she's putting weight back on, and she looks so good. "I'd love to, Katniss. I just wouldn't want to—you know—interrupt _anything_," Delly chortles, "you_ lovebirds_."

"DELLY!" I cry out, as red creeps across my cheeks and I blush furiously.

"Oh c'mon, Katniss, he was always so _good-looking _in school, and we all heard about his brothers from the other girls, so surely, Peeta must… live up to our expectations! I wouldn't want to interrupt you newlyweds…," Delly giggles furiously, blushing just as deeply as me. "Come on, tell me, how is he in bed? Sweet? Gentle? Rough? Like an animal—?" I cut Delly off by placing a wet-gloved hand over her mouth. She laughs. I bite my lips, like an embarrassed teenager.

"Why are we talking about this, in public?" I whimper. Delly shrugs. "And we're not newlyweds, we've been married forever, practically…," I hiss.

Delly crosses her eyes. "Well, duh, you've been married as long as I can remember, He's only been talking about it since we were _five. _It's just sex, Katniss, everyone _knows_ you're doing it. Everyone _wants_ to be doing it. Stop being such a prude!" Delly jokes. "I want to be doing it!"

_Oh, I've got this friend,_

_Holding onto her heart_

_Like it's a little secret,_

_Like it's all she's got to give._

"How can you even be thinking about sex?" I hiss, hoping that none of the other customers in the Hob can hear us. Delly rolls her eyes.

"Peeta's _all_ yours, Katniss. Always has been, always will be. Besides, he's like my _brother!_" Delly says, shaking her yellow blond curls. "Look, Katniss, it's just… that I've been deprived of contact with real boys for such a long time… I just want it, you know? _I need it!_" She looks me up and down, and I nod, inadvertently. _I do know what you mean, finally, Delly_.

"That's how I feel about Peeta," I admit shyly. Delly nods furiously.

"I need to find myself a man, Katniss," she states. "This girl has needs." _Wow, Delly is a blunt little thing, isn't she? I'm glad she's still boy-crazy—good to know some things never change._

"What about Thom?" I throw out, thinking about Peeta's co-worker and Gale's buddy, with the strawberry blond hair and hazel eyes and freckled skin. "He's cute, right?"

Delly nods eagerly. "I KNOW HIM. I remember him in Twelve and then from Thirteen. I hope he has a huge penis." My mouth gapes open. Delly nods knowingly.

_Oh, if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, if the right one came, along._

"How can you tell?" I ask curiously. Delly shrugs.

"It's all in the hands. And proportions. And if he has thick arms and a thick neck, he's hung."

"How do you know this, Dell?"

"Maybe you and Madge should have joined us at lunch, Kat." I nod my head appreciatively.

"We weren't boy-crazy back then," I smile. Delly wrinkles her nose.

"Well, I'm boy-crazy again, that's for sure. I didn't appreciate being treated like a breeding-machine in Thirteen, Katniss. _I had to get out_," Delly says seriously. _Damn right_, I agree in my head.

_It'd be such a shame._

_(If they never meet.)_

_She sounds lovely._

_(He sounds right out of a dream.)_

_If only—_

_(If only—)_

_If only—_

"Anyway, enough about boys, what brings you to the Hob today?" Delly continues, never skipping a beat. My voice catches in the back of my throat.

"I, uh, have some clothes that belonged to my mom and Prim. I—we—want to give it to charity," I cough, extending the box to Delly. She takes it from my wet arms and smiles.

"I know some people who will really appreciate this, Katniss," she says, smiling with her eyes. _How the hell does she do that?_ I wonder.

"Yeah, well, it's no good to us, Peeta and me don't have any kids and my mom is a lot smaller than me so…," I reply, trailing off as I fight back tears. Delly puts the box down and wraps me into a warm hug, taking all of my cold wetness and putting it on her.

"Sssh, Katniss, sssh, it's okay, Katniss," she coos, "it's hard. No one said it was easy. Saying good bye is hard, okay? We all… loved Prim. We all miss her. But we still have _you_, okay?"

"Yeah, I know," I sniffle through my snot into her thick curls.

"I'll see that these get to the people who need them the most, okay?"

"I trust you, Delly." She dries my tears with the cuff of her sweater, and plants a kiss on my cheek. I suddenly realized how very much I had been craving human contact from someone other than Peeta, and I fling my arms around her, wrapping her against my thawing little heart. I melt when she hugs back.

_Oh,_

_Oh, if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, (I've got this friend) if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, (I've got this friend)_

_If the right one came, along._

"Better, Kat?" Delly tweets. I smile and give her a thumbs up.

"Yeah. I need to go find Peeta," I say. "Hey, Delly, I never asked, but what are you doing these days?" A wide grin spreads across her face.

"I got a small-business loan from the Capitol. I'm restarting the family shoe shop. We're opening in here, on the second floor. That's one of the reasons my brother has to come home. And Dalton and his family are coming with him. Remember Dalton, the guy from Ten? He was a cobbler and works with leather, and he's moving here," Delly practically sings.

"That's great, Delly," I say sincerely. "Let me talk to Peeta about Thom, okay?" She returns my thumbs up.

"Us sisters need to stick together," she calls after me as I head out back into the snow.

_Delly Cartwright, the closest thing I have to a sister left in this world, _I think. _I could do worse._

_Oh,_

_Oh, if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, (I've got this friend) if the right one came,_

_If the right one came along._

_Oh, (I've got this friend)_

_If the right one came, along._


	30. Chapter 30: Under the Wire

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Under the Wire_ belongs to Carbon Leaf (another awesome band, full of Peeniss goodness).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta and Katniss head to City Hall to make Katniss' move official, and they get more than they bargained for.

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Peeta and Katniss take a huge step—but it's not what you think. I like to think that this catches Peeta pleasantly off guard. You can take the bureaucracy out of the Capitol, but you can't take the Capitol out of the bureaucracy! I see things happening faster for Katniss and Peeta right now as a result of circumstance, rather than choice. Please read, review, comment, and enjoy as always! GRAZIE! Smut in the next chapter, fair readers!

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 30: _Under the Wire_

_I need to feel redeemed;_

_I'm going sideways down_

_An ever-winding road,_

_With an ever-unbinding load,_

_Of a one-track mind,_

_Of a love that's lost somehow,_

_Of a flashing sign,_

_I'm under the wire now._

The snow is swirling around faster and faster, kicked up by the roaring wind; I can't even see across the square to Peeta's bakery. So I just dig my heels in, make sure my bow and arrows are strapped down, and force myself forward against the wall of snow and wind. Little flecks of ice are hitting my face and getting caught in my eyelashes, and I inexplicably cry. _This hurts, dammit!_ The tears running out of my eyes are freezing on my cheeks. I stifle my cries and man up, and burst forward, and then I hit a real wall. The wall falls down, and I'm on top of Peeta in the cold, dry snow.

"Woah, Katniss, what are you doing out here?" Peeta says, wrapping his arms around me. He's wearing his fur jacket from the Victory Tour, and I press my cold face into his warm pelts. "It's practically a blizzard, Kat, why aren't you home?" he continues frantically, sitting us up. I try to look at his face through the snowflakes, and press my lips to his. His mouth is hot and greedy, and his lips melt mine. "You shouldn't worry me like this, Kat…"

"I know, Peet. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would get this bad. I just… came… to the Hob… to drop off Prim's things…," I shiver. "I was coming to get you, so that we can go to City Hall and get this paperwork sorted out, before people get snowed in…" I shake violently against him as he unsteadily stands, carrying me in his arms. I wrap my arms around his neck and try to make it easier for him to maneuver in the snow with his prosthetic leg.

"Okay, Katniss," Peeta murmurs against my earmuff.

"I can walk now, Peeta," I add quietly. He sets me down, and he locks his arm behind my waist, and we make our way toward City Hall. It's apparent that people have been trying to shovel and salt the roads and sidewalks, but the snow came faster and harder and deeper than anticipated, and we can't keep up with it. I make a mental note to call Effie and ask her to send salt and shovels to the main facilities' distribution center. The snow lets up as we dreg our way through town, and by the time we reach the main square, only small white flakes are falling. Peeta shakes his head, and snow tumbles off his hat, and gets stuck in his collar, between his scarf and his neck. I try to scoop it out with my gloved hands, and Peeta just chuckles.

"You're making it worse, Kat," he chuckles, pinching my cheek with his leather-gloved hand. I turn sharply on my heel and attempt to stomp up the steps to City Hall, and I promptly trip on the ice and fall up the stairs. _Katniss Fucking Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, the epitome of grace and beauty._ I look back at Peeta furiously, and he's simply cackling at me, laughing that big laugh of his.

_Under the wire_

_I'm a train down the line—_

_Nothing left to lose or gain_

_But distance over time._

_Under the wire_

_Over all that we've been through;_

_Tell me what to do_

_To get to you._

"Only you can fall _up_ stairs, Katniss. What would Effie think?" Peeta chortles as he helps me to my feet. It's all I can do to glare furiously at him.

"That I'm helpless without you," I puff as Peeta opens the door. It's blessedly warm and dry inside, as if no one had come in all day due to the storm. Neither of us really know where to go, so we head toward the sign that says "Registration." You can take the bureaucracy out of the Capitol, but you can't take the Capitol out of the bureaucracy.

We see a young couple sitting on a bench, gingerly filling out paperwork. The young man's hands are shaking, and the young woman with the ash blond hair is heavily pregnant. They look up at Peeta and me, and I give them a weak smile. Peeta, of course, gives them a big wave.

"You guys new here?" Peeta asks cheerfully, and the color fades from the young man's face. He nods, a lock of chestnut hair falling across his forehead.

"We're from Six," the young girl says quietly, rubbing her swollen belly. She looks at us and cracks a small smile. "Do you always have such bad winters in Twelve?" I nod affirmatively. She sighs and leans back, groaning under the weight of her impending child.

_I need to feel the breeze_

_Of a new day's dawn._

_I need to be released_

_From the cold steel rail I'm on._

A woman suddenly appears at the counter; "Can I help you?" she asks brusquely. Her expression changes when she sees Peeta and I, and we approach the window. She has skin the color of Rue's and eyes just like Seeder's, and she warms instantly when she sees us. I think she must be a transplant from Eleven, and I just want to hug her. Peeta's hands are shaking as he takes his gloves off, and he coughs to clear his throat. It occurs to me that I should remove my hat and gloves, and in my haste, I tug off Peeta's earmuffs, too.

"How can I help you today?" she says gently, her voice the tone of caramel. Peeta blushes.

"We need to register some changes to our deeds," Peeta begins. The kind woman nods, looking at me expectantly.

"I moved into Peeta's house," I explain. "I don't need my house anymore." Peeta nods.

"And we want the unoccupied houses in the Victors' Village to go to other families in the District," Peeta adds.

"That's very generous of you," the woman says softly as she goes through a filing cabinet. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the young couple sitting on the bench staring at us in awe.

"We want young families, big families, new families to live in those houses. They've been empty for such a long time," I extrapolate, "Winter is coming." The woman laughs.

"Winter is here, child." She sits down at her computer, and types something in—it looks like our names, but we never learned how to type in school, so I'm useless. She smiles. "Please bear with us, we're still transitioning from a paper system to an online system." Peeta nods; he's tapping the foot of his prosthetic leg, a tick he's developed ever since the first Games; he only does it when he's nervous.

_Shake the love for a woman,_

_Break emotion overdrive,_

_Take a train to oblivion,_

_At the crossing of our lives._

She looks at us, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Katniss and Peeta, I've found your deeds, but I can't find your marriage license—"

Peeta panics, "Do we have to be married to live together?" I grab his arm with my hand, trying to steady him, trying to prevent an episode from seizing him, but he's shaking.

"It's okay!" I cry out quickly, "I'm sure it just got lost between the Capitol and the fire bombing. We'll just fill out another one, it's fine." I give her my best reassuring smile, and weave my fingers into Peeta's. He sighs with relief, and kisses the top of my head. I can see his eyes seeking mine out, and I try to smile back with my own.

The woman nods and smiles, a blush creeping into her dark skin. "You don't have to be married to live together. But obviously, your marriage license is important to you, so we'll just register another one." I smile triumphantly, settling down against the counter.

She starts asking the questions relevant to registration—our names, dates of birth, place of birth, relatives (living and deceased), occupations—and Peeta answers all of the questions for me. _He's always been paying attention_. My mouth has gone dry, and I just try to focus on counting the freckles that dot Peeta's hands.

_Under the wire_

_I'm a train down the line—_

_Nothing left to lose or gain_

_But distance over time._

_Under the wire_

_Over all that we've been through;_

_Tell me what to do_

_To get to you._

"Date of marriage?" she says, giving us a nudging smile. Peeta coolly names a date two years ago, the night of the interview before the Quarter Quell, when he told Caesar Flickerman and all of Panem that not only were we married, but that I was pregnant.

I can hear the young woman behind us start crying softly, "It's so lovely… it's so sad, and so beautiful." The young man tries to hush her, but he's sniffling, too. I can see tears welling up behind Peeta's big blue eyes, trapped by his eyelashes.

"And you live in Peeta's house in the Victors' Village now, yes?" the woman says.

"Yes," I confirm.

"And you both work at the bakery?"

"Yes," I reply, smiling wistfully.

"Any children?" the woman asks, and suddenly looks very sad. Peeta coughs and shakes his head.

"No," he says hoarsely. He squeezes my hand.

"Not yet," I get in. She nods and smiles, and clicks and prints out some forms. I sign everything _Katniss Everdeen Mellark_; I've never had a middle name before. It seems very strange. Peeta signs his name next to mine, wet tears falling openly on the paper.

She makes us copies, and hands them to Peeta in a neat manila envelope. "You'll receive recorded copies in the mail in four to six weeks, maybe a little longer, on account of the weather," the woman tells us. "Now, you both need to go have new photo IDs made. Second room on the left," and she shoos us out.

Peeta clutches the envelope to his chest and stares at her. "It's real, right? I mean, it's official, even though it isn't on record yet?—" he whispers. I tighten my grip on his hand.

She smiles, like this isn't the first time she got this question. "Yes, it's very official, we take these things extremely seriously." Peeta lets out his breath, and we head down the hall.

_I need to feel redeemed,_

_I wear my heart on a crying sleeve,_

_I bear the pressure of oil and moving steam,_

_Unaware if I'm gaining speed,_

_I'm prepared to move ahead—_

_Take me._

Peeta and I go in, still silent. Peeta helps me take off my jacket, and we sit down on a cold wooden bench, holding hands.

"You didn't have to do this, Katniss—" Peeta begins, and I cut him off with a kiss.

"No, Peeta, I wanted to," I say into our kisses. "I want everyone to know that I'm yours and you're mine, okay?" He slides his fingers into my hair, dancing around my neck.

"We already knew that Katniss, we didn't need a piece of paper," he says, peppering my cheeks with butterfly kisses. I shake my head and smile, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I wanted it, Peeta. I want this. I want you," I sigh, kissing him deeply, and he pulls me into his lap, until I'm straddling him, my arms locked behind his head, pressed against the well. _Public displays of affection be damned_, I think.

"I like that we've made it official, Katniss."

"Me too, Peeta. And it was _my_ idea this time," I smirk, and he kisses me hotly again.

_Under the wire_

_I'm a train down the line—_

_Nothing left to lose or gain_

_But distance over time._

_Under the wire_

_Over all that we've been through;_

_Tell me what to do_

_To get to you._

"Hey-o," a small man says as he enters the room, "sorry to interrupt, kids, but we've got some pictures to take. I don't know about you, but this is the last place I'd want to get snowed in at." The man looks like he could be Beetee's brother, with his slight build and his jet-black hair peppered with grey and dark almond eyes behind his glasses. He also seems to have an affinity for the same argyle sweaters that Beetee always wore. He glances at his computer screen. "Katniss Mellark? Peeta Mellark?" We nod. "Well, ladies first," he says, beckoning me to stand in front of a blue screen. "Smile for camera, Mrs. Mellark!" I can't help it—a huge smile flashes across my face. I sit down, and Peeta gives one his trademark smiles for the camera.

"You kids have always been photogenic," the man remarks as he sits down at his computer. I stop looking at Peeta, and actually look at this gentleman, and silent tears are streaming down his face.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks quietly, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. The man sniffs, and lets out a loud laugh.

"Oh, yeah, of course, I'm just a deceptively emotional guy! I'm just… very happy for you two, that's all. I think everyone is. We were all cheering for you, kicking ourselves. If you can have a happy ending, anyone can, right?" he says, wiping his foggy glasses on his sweater. "You really could have made it official sooner, you know," he smirks, handing us our new shiny IDs after the printer spits them out. I'm smiling like an idiot in my picture; Peeta (naturally) looks like Prince Charming. _MY Prince Charming._

"Are you new here?" Peeta asks as we tug our winter gear back on. That seems to be the question of the day. I tuck the manila envelope into my jacket, holding it as close to my body as possible.

"Yup. I'm here from Three. Implementing new systems technology in District Twelve," he replies easily. I must have a blank look on my face, because he chuckles and says, "I'm working on the computers, Katniss." I nod.

"Do you like it here?" Peeta asks. The man nods.

"Yeah, it's good for my boys. Fresh mountain air, room to breathe, room to roam, plenty of pretty girls. Terrible winters though, you really should have warned us!" the man responds, slapping Peeta jovially on the back.

"You all should come by the bakery," Peeta laughs and shakes his hand; I plant a kiss on the man's cheek before we leave.

_I am a steel-freight train,_

_I hand my train-wrecked heart_

_Back to you._

Peeta and I start the long walk back to the Victors' Village, and it's comfortably silent between us. The snow has stopped, and the sun is beginning to peak out from between slate clouds. Peeta never lets go of my hand; now I know how Finnick felt when Annie returned to him. I never want to let Peeta's hand go.

"I love you, Mr. Mellark," I say shyly.

As we approach our house, Peeta scoops me up in his arms. "You've made me really happy, Mrs. Mellark," he kisses me. He carries me over the threshold, and we don't even stop to take off our winter garments as he carries me upstairs to our bed, where we make love all night for the first time as the Mellarks.

_I am a steel-freight train,_

_I hand my train-wrecked heart_

_Back to you._


	31. Chapter 31: What Was I Thinking?

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Fuck, Was I? _belongs to Jenny Owen Youngs.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Peeta and Katniss have their first real fight, and harsh words are exchanged. But who's to blame? Is anyone really at fault?

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Sorry—you have a couple more chapters of dénouement and then I'll have some porn with plot for you. For the time being, I'm sorry, but Peeta and Katniss need to talk about something that they've been avoiding and yes, it gets nasty. They are newlyweds after all, but everything can't be rainbows and sunshine and sparkles and glitter. So here's my attempt at Peeta and Katniss fighting—and yes, there will be more. It doesn't get easier necessarily after they get married. Thanks for bearing with me, loyal readers and reviewers! I really appreciate everything right now, and y'all are amazeballs. Please send me any comments or constructive criticisms, and I look forward to hearing from you and posting more chapters!

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 31: _What Was I Thinking?_

_Love grows in me like a tumor—_

_Parasites bent on devouring its host._

_I'm developing my sense of humor—_

_'Till I can laugh at my heart between your teeth,_

_'Till I can laugh at my face beneath your feet._

Peeta and I usually saved our Saturday mornings for each other, but this weekend Peeta needed to go in and work the early shift because the bakery was short-staffed. I didn't even feel him leave our bed, but I dreamed that he kissed my forehead goodbye before heading off into the dark winter morning. I'm sure I wasn't dreaming and that it was real, but sometimes, I still have to remind myself that everything is real. That Peeta is mine and I am his, and that we're rebuilding District Twelve, that Paylor is president and Gale is far away in District Two, and that Haymitch lives right next door. But in this quiet morning, I feel a great void inside me due to Peeta's absence and disruption to our routine.

Instead of wallowing in bed, throwing a pity party for myself, I get up, shoving Buttercup to the floor and stripping the sheets from our bed. I find myself changing the sheets more and more often; we're intimate day and night, and our juices have soaked the bed. If it were up to Peeta, he'd never change our sheets and he'd just roll around in it with a smile on his face. "They smell like _you_," Peeta tells me with a smile as I throw the sheets down the stairs nearly three or four times a week. "Well then, Peeta, you may sleep on the wet spot," I reply with a smirk. This morning I make the bed alone, relieved that Peeta isn't around to tease me for coming like water fountain. But I miss his lips on mine, and his arms wrapped around my waist, and I find myself frowning despite my best intentions.

_Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,_

_Maybe I'll be the lucky one that doesn't get burned._

_What the fuck was I thinking?_

In an attempt to be productive before Peeta gets home for lunch, I decide to finish some honey and candles. I tiptoe over to Haymitch's house, and I can hear him snoring in his bedroom from the basement. I can also hear the steady beeping of the phone, indicating that it's off the hook, and realize he must have fallen asleep talking to Effie. _It's like I live in some alternate universe where Haymitch is a human being with feelings_, I think to myself as I scurry across the icy yards, beck to our warm kitchen. Peeta had been thoughtful enough to start the wood stove in the kitchen, pumping heat throughout the house, so that I didn't have to light a fire in every room.

I spread some newspapers across the table, and sit down with my jarred honey and some labels. I carefully label each mason jar, noting the day that honey was collected, the day it was refined, and what kind of flower the bees pollinated. These details are really for my own edification, because no one else except Sae and Haymitch are going to see them, but I become lost in my work. _Dandelion, clover, dogwood, posy, rue, baby's breath_… The warm amber honey smells like spring and sunshine, and for a moment, I can forget that it's winter in Appalachia.

Moving onto the candles, I take care to polish the small tea light tins to a dull silver, and start trimming the excess wax from the candles. With a hot knife, I smooth and shave the wax down until everything is even, then I trim the wicks, and with my father's old level, I make sure that the candle sits even on the table. Some candles are short and stout, some candles are tall and thin, some candles sit heavily in a jar. _Great, _I think, _I've become the crazy bee lady, and I've started giving my candles personalities. I should probably talk to Dr. A about that_. I become lost in my work, immersed in my own world, hot wax searing my fingertips and dripping onto the newspaper-clad table, the kitchen filling with the damp, steamy scent of burning wax and honey, like the woods during a humid summer rain. My hands are stained by the dyes in the wax, like my hand has been decoupaged by the colors of the forest in hues of red and brown and purple and green and yellow.

_Love plows through me like a dozer,_

_I've got more give than a bale of hay,_

_And there's always a big mess left over._

_What did you do?_

_What did you say?_

"Hey, Kat," Peeta calls as he comes into the mudroom, peering around the doorframe to find my back turned to him at the table. My knife slips and I cut the tip of my index finger.

"Damn you, Peeta," I mutter as I suck on my wounded finger, turning around to see him. "You're home early."

He glares at me. "Actually, Katniss, I'm home kind of late. Glad to see you too, sweetheart." Peeta stares at the mess I've made on the table, with hot wax everywhere, seeping through the newspaper, stained with dyes.

"What's the problem, Peeta?" I swallow, wrapping my still-bleeding finger with some newspaper. He shrugs nonchalantly as he looks around the kitchen.

"You're ruining the kitchen table, Katniss," he says slowly, deliberately, peeling off his gloves and hat and scarf and jacket, never breaking eye-contact with me.

"I put some paper down, Peeta, I wasn't entirely careless," I scoff, rolling my eyes. Peeta shakes his head.

"It's a nice mahogany table, Katniss. I'm sorry that you don't seem to _appreciate_ nice things." Now he's gone and gotten me angry.

I rise with a start from the table and round on him. "That's THE most FUCKING RIDICULOUS THING you have _ever_ said to me, Peeta Mellark!" I shout. "Who you think you are, huh? Effie fucking Trinket?"

"That's not the problem, Katniss. You don't seem to appreciate _me _or our things sometimes, okay? You just act without regard to anyone else!" Peeta yells, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.

"Well, I'm sorry that I ruined _your _table, Peeta. When will I ever stop being in _your debt_?" I rage, stepping toward him as his eyes blaze with anger. _Is he having another episode?_ I panic. _Will this ever stop being my fault?_

"IT'S NOT ABOUT THINGS, KATNISS. IT'S ABOUT YOU AND ME," he roars, bringing a fist down on the counter.

"WHAT ABOUT US?" I cry back, throwing my arms out to my sides, searching his face for some answer. Peeta swallows hard, and I can see his Adam's apple trembling.

"You don't respect me or my boundaries, Katniss," he mutters under his breath.

"What are you talking about, Peeta?" I whisper, coming forward, bringing a waxy hand to his cheek. Peeta sinks into my touch, then promptly bats it away.

_Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,_

_Maybe I'll be the lucky one that doesn't get burned._

_What the fuck was I thinking?_

"You brought them over here, Katniss," Peeta says, pointing to the candles and the honey. I laugh unintentionally.

"Yeah, Peeta, honey and candles. Big fucking deal."

"You promised me that you would keep it at Haymitch's. You _promised_, Katniss."

I shake my head at him. "Keep what at Haymitch's? The beekeeping? This isn't beekeeping. It's just production," I reply. Peeta buries his face in his flour-streaked hands.

"YOU DON'T GET IT AT ALL, DO YOU, KATNISS?" he roars in my direction.

"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING, PEETA?" I shout back, stepping away from him.

Peeta's face is beet red and his forehead is creased with wrinkles and his eyes are alit with anger, but he's not having an episode. _He might actually be really angry_, it occurs to me.

"BEES! TRACKER JACKERS! BEE! TRACKER JACKERS!" Peeta bellows, gesticulating wildly with his hands. "THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME TO ME, KATNISS! I CAN'T SEPARATE THEM IN MY MIND. I CAN'T, I JUST CAN'T." He bursts into tears, turning away from me.

"Katniss, when I hear a bee, I think it's a tracker jacker, I'm sorry, I just can't distinguish between them anymore, okay?" he cries.

"I'm sorry, Peeta, I just wasn't thinking…," I mumble, wringing my hands.

"That's just it, Katniss. Sometimes I don't think you _ever_ think about other people, and how your actions affect them. You still don't know the effect that you have on people. That you have on me," he extrapolates, making me feel infinitely worse.

"But this is just honey and candles, Peeta, no bees," I try to explain, reaching for the back of his arm.

"BUT I DON'T ALWAYS KNOW THAT, KATNISS. What _if_ a bee was in here?" Peeta yells, pulling away from my reach.

"BUT THERE WON'T BE!" I plead hysterically, my tears getting in the way of my speech. "I DO THAT AT HAYMITCH'S!"

"EXACTLY," Peeta snarls, "you promised that you would keep it at _Haymitch's_. And now I find them here. I have limits, Katniss. You crossed a line. You crossed that boundary that _I need_ to feel safe. You took _me_ out of my comfort zone. _You_ broke a promise." _I broke a promise to Peeta? Wouldn't be the first time_, I think woefully.

_Boundaries, Katniss_, I hear Dr. Aurelius telling me in my head, _you and Peeta need boundaries and routines, and you need to respect them_.

_Love tears me up like a demon._

_Opens the wounds and fills them with lead,_

_And I'm having some trouble just breathing._

_If we weren't such good friends I think that I'd hate you._

_If we weren't such good friends I'd wish you were dead._

"Peeta, I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking, I thought I'd be done before you got home, I just forgot—" I beg. Peeta turns around on me.

"KATNISS, I WILL NEVER FORGET WHAT THEY DID TO ME WITH THOSE TRACKER JACKERS. AND EVERY GODDAMN TIME I SEE OR HEAR A BEE, I'M REMINDED OF THE HIJACKING, AND I'M AFRAID THAT I'LL LOSE MYSELF AGAIN," Peeta howls. "THAT I'LL GO MUTT AGAIN AND HURT MYSELF, OR EVEN WORSE, HURT YOU, KATNISS."

_Maybe I can reason with him_, I think desperately. "Peeta—Peeta, they're _just_ bees. You're literally a _thousand_ times bigger than them, and you can squash them with your hand—" I squeak.

"I don't care, Katniss. They'll _always_ remind me of the hijacking," he sighs.

"But Peeta, we _need _bees! We need them to pollinate the trees and flowers, and we need them to keep bad insects at bay, and we need them for honey and wax. AND IF WE DON'T HAVE BEES WE DON'T HAVE DANDELIONS IN THE SPRING, YOU ASSHOLE! WHAT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" I sob, trying to make him see my reasoning, to see why I'm really doing it. "I'M DOING THIS FOR YOU, PEETA. EVERYTIME I GET RID OF A TRACKER JACKER NEST, I'M GETTING BACK AT THE CAPITOL FOR YOU!"

"SOUNDS PRETTY FUCKING SELFISH TO ME, KATNISS!" Peeta shouts. "AND I DON'T FUCKING CARE WHAT YOUR MOTIVES ARE, IT BOTHERS ME ANYWAY."

"You're being absurd, Peeta. They're just bees. Man up already," I say gruffly. Peeta shoots daggers with his eyes.

_Oh it's so embarrassing—_

_I'm this awkward and incomparable thing,_

_And I'm running out of places to hide._

"_Man up already_? Really, Katniss? Like it doesn't bother me _enough_ that you're not afraid of them, and you never have been. You're twice the man I am; I would never have thought to drop a nest on a group of sleeping teenagers," he says coldly.

"HOW _DARE YOU_ GO THERE!?" I shout, stomping my foot.

"YOU WENT THERE, KATNISS."

_He won't even be reasonable_, I grumble to myself. "Well, why didn't you say anything when I started beekeeping, if it makes you so upset?" I ask. He shrugs his shoulders dejectedly.

"Because it seems to make you happy, even if it's making me miserable. So I just try to look past it. Until you pull shit like this," Peeta snivels.

"I'll stop if you want me to, Peeta," I put forth. He shakes his head furiously.

"No, Katniss, I'm not _that_ guy. I don't own you or control you or possess you, and I certainly don't tell you what to do. I just ask that you respect my boundaries. And you clearly don't," Peeta muses sadly, averting his eyes from mine. _He's just making me feel worse._

"Peeta, I'm really sorry—" I start, and he cuts me off.

"You're not _really_ sorry, Katniss. You're just sorry that you got caught," Peeta cries.

I make for the mudroom. I grab the nearest jacket and my bow and arrow, and I throw the door open. "I've fucking _had it_, Peeta Mellark. You can't keep guilt-tripping me for the rest of my life about this shit. I'll be home when I'm ready to talk like an _adult_ to my _husband_." And with that I'm out the door, slamming it behind me, running into the forest.

_Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,_

_Maybe I'll be the lucky one that doesn't get burned._

_What the fuck was I thinking?_


	32. Chapter 32: I Love You But I Don't Know

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Fuck, Was I? _belongs to Jenny Owen Youngs.

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Katniss turns to Johanna to try and figure out what happened with Peeta and how to fix it after an afternoon at the lake. Can Johanna help Katniss see through her emotional gut-reaction and understand why Peeta acted the way he did?

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **I loved writing this chapter because I love me some Jo and she is such fun to write. I (for one) would love to see how Katniss and Jo's friendship progresses after the rebellion. Johanna is the girlfriend that Katniss can "bro" out with, because Jo keeps it real. I'm also still trying to work within the confines of District Twelve, since Katniss can't leave, technically. No Peeta in this chapter—but the next is pure smut. Bwah ha ha. You kids are awesome sauce, you know that, right? Please send me any comments or constructive criticisms, and I look forward to hearing from you and posting more chapters!

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 32: _I Love You But I Don't Know What to Say_

_We belong here, we belong here—_

_Ain't nobody that can tell us we're wrong._

_Help me say, say this to you—_

_I'll stand by your side, to see you through._

About an hour later, I find myself perched upon my very icy rock by the lake_, _and I keep slipping down because it's so slick and frostbitten. I'm freezing, because Angry Katniss didn't think to take her hat and gloves with her. And I grabbed a light jacket, and wind is whipping through it, down to my very bones. And, to make matters worse, my index finger is still bleeding, all over my bow and arrows. _It'll probably need a stitch when you get home_, my mother tells me in my head. The lake is frozen solid—almost thick enough for ice fishing—but a few brave animals are using it to cross, their little feet making roads in the snow. The sun glints hard off the white snow, and my face hurts from squinting my eyes against the blinding light. _This is my life, these are my choices_, I think glumly.

I don't even know why I came out here. Probably to sit and think and mostly sit, but now I'm so numb with cold and sadness and anger that I can't really remember why I came out here, or how I got out here. I don't know why I took my bow and arrows, because it's not like I can hunt anyway, I've been cuckolded. _I've lost the ability to can_, I think sadly. _And the effect I have on people is blind rage. How flattering._

I think I'm here mostly because I just wanted to get away from the house, away from Peeta, away from the overbearing stench of guilt. But it followed me here. And the only person I want in the entire world is Peeta.

_He's right, you know,_ I think. _I don't always appreciate him, or things that he does for me. And I don't always respect his boundaries, but I expect him to mind mine. And I don't know how, but some days he has me convinced that the hijacking never happened, but then he has an episode or I have a nightmare, or something like this happens. __**How could I ever forget? **__But now I'm his wife, and I need to be more supportive and understanding._ I might never emerge from his debt, but I can prove to be his equal. My teeth chatter against my shivering lips, and I slither away from my rock, back towards Victors' Village, back to our home.

_I promise you that I'll keep you safe from harm,_

_I'll love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh**, I love you but I don't know what to say**._

Peeta's very words haunt me as I run back. _I'm not that guy, Katniss_, _that guy who controls you and owns you and possesses you. I'll never be __**him**__. _He's right: he's not that man, and he's never been that man, and the only man I can think of who fits that description lives on another mountain, in District Two. _Gale_. Gale, who never hesitated to tell me what to do; _why is Peeta still bringing him into this?_

When I get home, the house is empty, but Peeta kept the fire going and cleaned up the table, leaving my candles and honey neatly arranged on the counter. Fresh potato pancakes with sour cream and applesauce sit on the counter, and I sigh. _He's thoughtful even when he's angry with me_, I sigh as I sink my teeth into a crispy latke. I meander over to the powder room and grab one of my mother's many first aid kits. I wonder where Peeta is, when I wander over to the phone, pick it up, and dial the familiar number.

"Hey, brainless, how's it hanging?" Johanna cackles on the other end of the phone.

"How'd you know it was me, Jo?" I say, smirking into the receiver.

"Caller ID, baby, the Capitol is _fabulous_," Johanna replies a la Effie.

I let out a short giggle. "Oh yeah?"

I can see Johanna judging me from the other end of the phone. "Whatever. Whaddya want, Katniss?"

_I was lost, I was lost—_

_Tried to find the balance, got caught up in the cost._

_Let it go, when I met you—_

_All the clouds parted, all that light came shining through._

I twirl the phone cord around my fingers, letting out a sigh. "What have you been up to, Jo?" I say, avoiding her question entirely. _Not yet_, I tell myself.

Johanna snorts. "This. That. Stuff. They moved me back into the Training Center. I think they just got tired of dealing with me. But honestly, who could possibly get tired of seeing my smiley mug all day?" she jokes, referring to her medical team.

"That sounds nice. Good view," I answer. I know how much Johanna hates staying in the Capitol, but they honestly don't know where else to put her.

"Oh yeah? Not as good as the view I get coming in and out of Enobaria's apartment. She has some interesting company, man," Johanna laughs.

"Enobaria moved into the Training Center?" I say incredulously. Enobaria had been taken into custody by Snow when she was captured, then promptly released to her clients. I can't believe that she would agree to anything put forth by Plutarch or Paylor.

"Yep. Us girls have the whole place to ourselves. I think I'm going to request some renovations. Namely, concrete sound insulation. Enobaria is into some weird shit," Johanna snaps.

"How's Plutarch?" I broach. I start cleaning my index finger with an alcohol swab and I wince as I get a good look at the cut. Truthfully, it's deep, but it doesn't need a stitch.

"Scheming, as usual. He'd _really_ like you to reply to his letters or answer the phone, brainless."

"How's Paylor?" I dab some antiseptic on my fingertip and wrap a bandage around it, pressingly firmly.

"Fine. Wants you to stay far, far away from the Capitol."

"Cressida?"

"Working on a new series of propos," Johanna answers dully, clearly wanting to detour around anything regarding the new government.

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

"Oh," I say softly. "But what are you doing, Jo?"

"I fuck bitches," she retorts.

"No, seriously!" I snicker.

"I have to go home in a few weeks, actually, on business," she responds, almost gently. Gently for Johanna. I can see the light go out of her dark eyes.

"Sounds fun. You talked to Annie?" I ask, trying to get out of asking her more questions about her trip to District Seven. _It must be serious, if they are sending her on business_, I think.

"Yeah, she wants me to come out to Four and visit the bambino," Johanna says, and I can hear her scratching the back of her neck nervously.

"Are you going to go?"

"Nah, you know how I feel about the water, brainless. Plus, she only wants me to come out so that I can babysit and she can sleep. But damn, her baby is cute, isn't he? A little Finnick."

"Yup," I swallow.

_I promise you that I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

I hear Johanna move the phone to her other ear, rattling against her newly-acquired piercings. "Everyone wants to know when Peeta is going to put a bun in your oven," she sniggers.

"Not anytime soon, Jo."

"Have you even fucked yet, brainless? The boy's been dying to do it for thirteen years. You finally give him some? I'm telling you—you give that boy a piece, and he'll be quiet—" Johanna inquires before I cut her off.

"JO!" I shout, and my voice reverberates across the wires. _Composure, Katniss_. "Yeah, we've had sex. But no babies. Not anytime soon." I hear Johanna nod.

"So what's he like in bed, Katniss? The Capitol is _dying _to know. Mostly, I'm dying to know. I know what the boy sounds like when he screams, but what does he sound like when he _comes_?" Johanna says mischievously.

"OH MY GOD, JOHANNA!" I shriek wildly, looking around the kitchen to make sure that Peeta hasn't popped in. Or worse yet, Haymitch. "INAPPROPRIATE, JOHANNA."

"One word, brainless. Gimme _one_ word," she begs breathily.

"_Animal_," I groan into the receiver.

"Huh. I saw that one coming. Whatever. Good for you."

"You're almost as bad as Delly, Jo. Nosy as fuck!"

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

"Whatever. Why didn't you guys tell us you were getting hitched?" she asks.

I shake my head. _How does she know about that?_ "They're just papers, Jo. We've been married for a long time."

"Yeah, well, everyone out here had quite the shock when we got the official memo noting that your name, address, and marital statuses had changed. Plutarch _almost_ called to congratulate you crazy kids."

"I'm glad that he didn't," I whisper. "It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions, you know?"

"Nope, brainless, never been married. Never been given the opportunity."

"Jo—" I begin.

"Don't even. Look, you've made Peeta really happy, I'm sure and that's all that matters, right?"

"Right."

"So why did you call me?"

Tears start rolling down my face. "We got in a fight today, Jo."

"Don't start crying, brainless. I'm sure he doesn't _really_ hate you. What'd you do, anyway?"

"I was doing some beekeeping at the house—" I start, only to be halted by Johanna's tsking.

"Yeah, well, brainless, you shoulda known that would piss him off. He hates that shit," Johanna counters immediately.

I make a rabbit face. "How the fuck do you even know about my beekeeping, Jo? I never really mentioned it to you."

"But Peeta has, a couple times. Like when you got stung by the tracker jacker. And when you told him you'd do it at Haymitch's. He _really_ doesn't like it, Katniss," Johanna says. "But he would _never_ _deny you anything_." It takes me a moment to digest it.

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

"I didn't mean anything by it," I explain, "He went into the bakery and I wanted to finish some stuff, and I guess I just got caught up in it, and I didn't finish before he got home, and then we got into it."

"And then?"

"We yelled at each other. And then I ran away into the woods."

"Good move, brainless. Abandon the kid. You're a great wife."

"How do I fix it?"

"He'll come home, he'll apologize, and you'll fuck each other until you forget about it," Johanna answers easily.

"What do I tell him?"

"Well, are you really sorry?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because…," and I hesitate for a moment, "—I violated his privacy and boundaries and wishes. I didn't respect his limits."

"Okay. So tell him that. Exactly. And?" she prompts me.

"I'm going to work harder on being less self-absorbed in the future?" I answer hopefully.

"Yup. But he's not getting out of this one like that, Katniss. He can't just lash out at you like that. He needs to get better at expressing his angry feelings before they build up and he blows up. Can you ask him to do that, too?" Johanna adds. It makes me feel better, knowing that I'm not entirely at fault.

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

"I think so, Jo. We're still figuring this whole trust thing out," I answer. I see her shrug.

"That's okay, brainless. He's still working on a lot of issues of his own, you know? You can't leave him."

"I won't," I whimper. "I didn't _leave_, I just needed some fresh air."

"Mutt Peeta doesn't know that, Katniss," Johanna says quietly. "You need to be more supportive and understanding, okay?" I nod. "And now, the best part is that you get to have make up sex. I think you owe him a blow job."

If Johanna could see me now, she'd see my face turning the color of an overly ripe tomato. "OH MY GOD, JO, YOU CAN'T JUST GO AROUND SAYING SHIT LIKE THAT!"

"Like what? _Blow job_? Like you haven't done it before." She meets silence on my end. "Hasn't he gone down on you? Haven't you returned the favor?"

"Jo—he—you know—kissed me—there—" I stutter.

"And you didn't reciprocate?"

"WAS I SUPPOSED TO? HOW MANY BLOW JOBS DO I OWE HIM?" I shriek, now terrified that I'm not good enough for Peeta in bed.

"It's highly recommended, brainless," Johanna says flippantly, smacking some gum. "Try it. You might like it. Quite the power trip, if you ask me."

"Okay," I say shakily. _It's just a penis, Katniss. Peeta's penis. You'll be fine_.

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._

And as if Johanna could hear my inner monologue, she laughs, "It's just a penis, Katniss. You'll figure it out. You'll be fine. _Listen to him_."

"Good rule of thumb, Jo."

"Let me know if you need any pointers."

"Will do."

"Are you going to rub one out while you wait for him to come home?"

"Maybe. How did you know he wasn't home?"

"You _never_ call me when he's home. It's because I make you blush. And you have a little lady crush on me, and don't want to make Peeta jealous. Also, I've heard you masturbate before."

"That's true, Jo."

"Gotta go. Catch you later, brainless," Johanna says with aplomb.

"Thanks, Jo. Say hi to everyone for me." The phone clicks, and Johanna is gone, and I'm all alone with my raunchy thoughts in the kitchen, waiting for Peeta to come back to me.

_I promise you I will keep you safe from harm_

_And love you all the rest of my days._

_When the night is silent and we seem so far away—_

_Oh, **I love you and I don't know what to say**._


	33. Chapter 33: Lights On

_**The Secret Life of Bees**_

**Disclaimer: **_The Hunger Games _belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. _The Secret Life of Bees _belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. _Lights On_ belongs to The Pierces (I'm vaguely obsessed with their first album, heh).

**Thanks to: SavannahHershey**, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, **Alaina Downs**, and **orea domina!**

**Ships: **Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)

**Summary: **Can Katniss and Peeta make things right after their first fight as a married couple? (Read: pure sex.)

**Rating: M **for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.

**A/N: **Welp, this chapter is basically porn with content, seeing as Peeta and Katniss both want to bury the hatchet and move on. Please read, enjoy, review and comment! This will probably be my last posting for awhile, because I have nothing else written and little-to-no-inspiration (as much as I want to finish, damn writer's block slash real life slash job slash moving slash panic). Thanks for all the feedback and love, I really do sincerely appreciate it and take all of it to heart!

**Come visit Haymitch and Effie at parachutesfromhaymitch dot tumblr dot com!**

**AO3: pippiblondestocking**

Chapter 33: _Lights On_

_Some people say that I want you for your money _

_But I really want for your body._

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

_Pleased to meet you, baby—_

_I want to be your honey,_

_So let's go tell your daddy and mommy._

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

It's dark when Peeta comes home; the sun has set and dipped behind the mountains, and I'm sitting nervously in the kitchen when he comes in the backdoor from the mudroom. He bites his lip nervously.

"You aren't wearing a jacket, Peeta, it's cold," I say dumbly. He gives me a smirk.

"I just went next door to Haymitch's," he replies, sitting down next to me and winding an arm around my waist, drawing my head to his shoulder.

"Do you feel better?" I breathe into his flannel shirt. Peeta kisses the top of my head.

"Yeah. We had a few beers. Hashed it out. I'm sorry, Katniss," Peeta replies, lifting me into his lap. I shake my head against his neck.

"No, Peeta, I'm sorry. Please let me be sorry," I beg him as I lean into his embrace. He shakes his head.

"My dad used to tell me that you shouldn't go to bed angry, Katniss," he says, rubbing my back.

I'm too tired to cry, so I just sigh. "I'm sorry that I didn't respect your limits or boundaries or space. I'm sorry I forgot what you went through. I'm sorry that I broke my promise to you. It won't happen again in the future, Peeta. I'm going to be respectful and supportive," I swear, knotting my fingers in his.

"Thank you, Katniss, that means a lot to me," Peeta replies, rocking us back and forth. "I'm sorry that I overreacted back there. I should know what it's like to lose track of time. I'm sorry that I said those terrible things to you. I know that you appreciate me. I just got lost in the moment. I can't promise that it won't happen again, but I'm going to do my best, okay?"

"That's all we can ask for, Peeta," I whimper.

"Katniss, Haymitch told me everything about you and the beekeeping. And I think I finally get it. Bees. Pollen. Spring. Flowers. Hope. Rebirth. Promise. I'm sorry, I should have put the pieces together before," Peeta says in one breath. I nod.

"Peeta, it's okay. I have this nasty Seam habit of being very secretive when I shouldn't be," I counter.

"Katniss?" Peeta utters, holding my chin in his hands and turning my eyes up to his. _So, so blue. So, so very distracting._ "I'd like to sell your honey and candles in the bakery. It's _our_ bakery, after all."

"Thank you, Peeta, I'd like that. Will you paint the labels?" I ask shyly, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Of course, Katniss. I thought you'd never ask," Peeta replies, returning my kisses with his own, firm and steady and even and deep, asking for my forgiveness, even though I should be asking him. _I won't deny him anything_, I think as I lose myself in his kisses.

_This won't get any easier _

_Now that your heart is beating in my hand._

_I'll try not to destroy you, baby, _

_Even though we both know I can—_

_**Oh, you know I can.**_

"We should go to bed, Peeta," I say as his lips leave mine and make a hot trail down my neck, to my collarbone.

"We're not really going to bed, are we, Katniss?" Peeta says dangerously. I can feel his erection against my bottom, and I shake my head.

"Not exactly," I blush.

"I'll bet you changed the sheets this morning, didn't you?"

"Mmm hmm," I moan against his lips.

"Good. I want to make them smell like you _again_ and _again_ and _again_," Peeta licks my ear.

He scoops me up in his arms, and we make our way out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. He kicks open our door, and I'm laughing at how ridiculous we must look as we tumble into our bedroom. He drops me on the bed and begins pulling my clothes off in earnest.

"Peeta!" I whine. "The lights!" He smiles devilishly at me.

"Not tonight, Katniss. Tonight, I want to _see _you, all of _you_," he groans as my hands unbutton his shirt, and I tug his undershirt up and out of his pants. His mouth returns to my neck as I fumble with his belt and trouser zipper.

"I'll allow it," I gasp as Peeta's mouth latches onto my nipple. I always gasp when he does this, but tonight his teeth are nipping at my soft skin with a ferocity that I've never seen before, and his soft rosebud mouth is working wonders as his hand goes to my other breast, and all of the blood and heat and wetness flow to my core, beneath the pit in my stomach.

_Make love with the lights on, baby,_

_Tell me what you see._

_Clear the bed to lie on, darlin',_

_Make a mess of me._

_Here's my dress to try on, baby,_

_Let me be your man._

_I will call you pretty, darlin',_

_**Tell me what I am.**_

It's as if he tongue never leaves my nipple, pressed against my own skin, driving my hips closer and closer to his. Peeta takes a moment to return to my mouth, ravishing my tongue with his, and his free hand dips between my thighs and then back up to my cheek, before his mouth plants itself on then other breast, and he suckles like he's never suckled before. My nipples are flushed and red and puckered as he goes to work, flicking and flitting his tongue, rolling my nipple, and teasing me between his teeth.

"Peeta," I keen and arch my back, and he comes up for air, rolling both of my breasts under his hands, and kissing me deeply. "Peeta…," I moan again, running my hands through his soft hair, and up and down his strong back, drawing him into closer to me, between my legs. I look down as he kisses my neck and breasts and stomach, and I can see that his hardness is already stiff and engorged, and ready to be inside of me. _I don't really mind having the lights on_, I think breathlessly. "Peeta, I want to make you feel good," I wail.

"You _always _make me feel good, Katniss," he sighs into the valley between my breasts as his fingers play with the bundle of nerves between my legs.

"Peeta, I want to make _you_ feel _good_," I say again, pushing myself up against him, then kissing him, and finally maneuvering him onto his back. "Please, let me make you feel good," I whimper as I kiss my way down his stomach, across his pecs and down his happy trail, until his erection is in my hands and in front of my face.

I've never been this close up before, and I can see every vein that makes me tremble so viciously, and I can see the creamy liquid pooling at the tip, on his slit, and I'm admiring his muscle before I resolve to take the plunge.

_This won't get any easier _

_Now that your heart is beating in my hand._

_I'll try not to destroy you, baby, _

_Even though we both know I can-_

_**Oh, you know I can.**_

"Oh my God, Katniss, are you going to do what I think you're going to do?" Peeta moans, running his hands through his hair as my fingers wiggle into his nest of pubic hair.

_It's Peeta, just Peeta, think how good he makes you feel, inside and out. How good this felt against your thigh in the cave, on the train. It's a part of him. Love it_. And with that, I cautiously bring my lips to the tip, kissing away the liquid that's accumulated lightly. Peeta groans and bucks his hips. I continue to draw the tip into my mouth, wrapping my lips around his head, tasting Peeta for what seems like the first time. He's salty and slightly bitter, but not at all unpleasant. It smells vaguely like yeast rising.

"Katniss," he groans again, grinding his hips and rubbing his eyes. I take more of him into my mouth, his member pressed against my tongue, and I start to suck, taking him deeper and deeper, until I've got him in almost to the hilt, and my nose is buried into his pubic hair. I run my tongue over every vein and muscle, sliding up and down his penis, trying to take in every iota of him. I come up for air, and look him straight in the eye. A faint smile plays upon his lips, and his eyes are squeezed shut.

"Don't stop, Katniss, it feels so good," he encourages me, and I take him into my mouth once again, and I feel the hot blood rush toward his member, into my mouth. He's throbbing as I bob my head up and down, taking him into my mouth the way I take him into my womanhood. He's thrusting with my motions, and I that find his hands make their way to my hair, and he starts to buck his hips against my face.

"I'm sorry, Katniss" I won't push you," he mews.

"It's okay, Peeta," I whisper as I stroke him up and down his long velvety length. _I've never thought about how much of him there is to put in me_, I use. I bring my lips back to him, peppering his member with kisses, bringing my lips to his pubic hair, and feel his testicles, hard against my mouth.

_Oh, oh, oh—_

_C-c-c-can I have your number?_

_Can I have you, baby?_

_Can we run away together?_

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

_I would walk on water,_

_I would walk on fire,_

_I would sell my soul to the devil._

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

"Oh God, Katniss," Peeta cries, unexpectedly bucking his hips against my head, his hands knotted into my hair, but my mouth is ready to receive him, and I suck hard. I keep sucking the whole way up his shaft as I pull up and he inches out, and every nerve and vein is standing at attention, and I swirl my tongue and lips around his head, slipping into the nooks and crannies of the tip, feeling each and every wrinkle, into his slit. I let my teeth nip him lightly as I take a deep breath and take him wholly into my mouth again, sheathing him with my lips, as he thrusts wildly, pushing me toward him.

"I'm so close, Katniss," Peeta whimpers, caressing the back of my neck. I nod, and slide my tongue up and down his length as I take his tip between my lips again and draw liquid from his prick. I suddenly feel his member seize and expand and surge, and everything is coursing through it right now, and with sudden spasm of his muscle, he empties himself into my mouth.

"Katniss," he whispers as he clutches my hair, falling back onto the pillows, a smile creeping across his face, but not as quickly as the red flushes his cheeks.

It's odd, but I reckon that it tastes like egg yolks, and I don't mind so much. _It tastes like Peeta_, I think as I swallow it and find my breath. I smile at him as I crawl and kiss my way back up to his shoulders.

An_d this won't get any easier _

_Now that your heart is beating in my hand._

_I'll try not to destroy you, baby, _

_Even though we both know I can—_

_**Oh, you know I can.**_

Peeta is out of breath and flush and shaking as I come to rest my forehead against his. He smirks at me as I bring my lips to his, and he opens his mouth, greedily tasting himself on my lips.

"That was good, Katniss. But now _I'm_ going to make you come," he teases as his hands wind their way down to tailbone, and he flips me over. "It's _my _turn," he growls as his lips make their familiar way down my stomach. His hands have driven my thighs open, and his hand has already found my clit, rolling it between his thumb and index finger.

"Peeta," I cry, already out of breath as he fondles my breasts with his free hand. He rests his golden head at my belly button as his hand plays between my legs. One finger finds it way in slowly, and I cry out as he takes his excruciating time. "Peeta," I cry again as he kisses my belly button, grinning at me.

"Katniss," he sighs as another finger goes in, and my hands fly to the back of his neck and into his hair, bucking my hips against him and pressing his head down inadvertently. He pumps in and out deliberately, watching me intently as I writhe against the pillows, moaning his name.

"Please," I wail, my hands finding their own way between my legs, grabbing his, and pushing my hips down against his fingers. Peeta purses his lips and adds a third finger, curling them inside of me, his thumb making rapid circles against my bundle of nerves.

"That's what you like, Katniss," Peeta says as his face disappears between my thighs, and the next thing you know, his mouth has latched onto my clit, rolling it between his tongue and his lips. His tongue separates my lips, and he sucks deeply, pulling my clit into his mouth and my lips against his. Peeta teases his tongue up and down my slit, slowly then quickly, flicking and flitting, exploring me gently.

The pressure is building up within my core as Peeta pulls my arousal back like the string of a bow, and I lose control, thrusting my hips against his face as I feel his nose buried in my womanhood, _smelling me, tasting me, pleasuring me_. I shut my eyes and fall back into the pillows, grinding down on him as his tongue slips inside of me, pumping in and out, sliding up and down against my walls.

"Peeta!" I whine, tugging his blond curls. But he doesn't relent—his tongue inside of me against my walls picks up its pace, his lips making quick work of my nub. The colors before my eyes swirl into a blur and fade into white as I scream his name while his tongue fucks me numb. Suddenly, Peeta's tongue and lips and mouth release the quiver, and I collapse into a pool of come as I drown Peeta's face in the river between my legs.

_Make love with the lights on, baby,_

_Tell me what you see._

_Clear the bed to lie on, darlin',_

_Make a mess of me._

_Here's my dress to try on, baby,_

_Let me be your man._

_I will call you pretty, darlin',_

_**Tell me what I am.**_

He reverently kisses the insides of my thighs, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and returns his mouth quickly to mine, his hardness pressing against my core yet again. Without a moment's notice, he thrusts into me, and his member is sheathed within my center with one movement. My hips nook into place against his, and I struggle to catch my breath in his mouth as his lips take dominance over mine. His kisses match the pace of his movement within me.

Peeta wraps his arms around my waist and rests on his elbows, angling himself up, and I reach up to kiss him. He brings his mouth to my breast and sucks hard, teasing my nipple with his teeth as I cry out in pleasure. Not wasting any time, he starts driving into me at this new angle, my hips elevated to his, his hips more parallel. I bring my knees up to my sides, and he smiles at me as his brings his arms around them, leaning over me and going even deeper.

My nerves and walls are on fire, which is ironic, considering how wet I am, and his member is swelling and pounding and throbbing within my walls. I struggle to constrict my walls around him as he thrusts into me, my breasts bouncing as hips hold mine fast to the bed. He's hitting every sensitive spot deep within me. I grab my own breasts, feeling the pebbles that are my nipples, and moan Peeta's name until it's every breath.

"You're so beautiful, Katniss," Peeta whimpers huskily as his movements become more even and deep and constant.

"Oh my God, Peeta, please, right there!" I cry out as he hits the bundle of nerves buried deep, up by my cervix. "Yes, please, there!" I shout, my hips bucking up as my thighs begin to shake. It's almost like there is a flower deep within me, blooming, it's petals stretching out for the first time as Peeta fucks me senseless. I feel another wet rush between my legs, rushing out, swirling around his member buried deep within me as I constrict and contract and release against him.

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

_(Yes, oh, yes.)_

"Katniss," he moans as my legs fall down and wrap themselves around his thighs, bringing him in closer to me. Peeta's chest presses against mine as he draws himself down closer to me, his hands on my breasts, his lips all over my shoulders. I drag my hands across his back, his chest, his hair—every part of him available to touch, and I can feel his muscles trembling.

Peeta's deep, even, steady strokes become unpredictable as he thrusts in and out of me, almost withdrawing but not quite, only to drive back into me and fuck me from his base. I feel his penis throb with desire and arousal and blood and heat, and I feel the shaking from his hilt that I felt while he was in my mouth. Peeta brings his lips back to mine, crushing my mouth with his as he drives his release into my core, releasing a cry into my mouth. I moan with him, arching my back as Peeta fills me to the brim with his essence.

I play with his hair between my fingers as he draws in shaky breaths against my neck. Peeta kisses my chin, my cheeks, my jaw line as he pulls back to look at me. He smiles at me weakly as he slips out of me, but he doesn't roll off of me. Peeta caresses my cheek with a calloused hand, and I sigh and lean into his touch. He kisses me softly at first, then deepens the kiss, and I still feel that fire, that heat, that desire licking and burning me from the inside out. With his arms wrapped around me, he falls to his side.

"I have to turn out the lights, Katniss," he murmurs against my hair as one hand falls away, finding its way to the lamp switch. I nod.

"I love you, Peeta," I sigh when the lights go off and he brings our clean fresh covers over us.

"I love you too, Katniss," Peeta replies, kissing me in earnest. "By the way, you've got the wet spot tonight."

_Make love with the lights on, baby,_

_Tell me what you see._

_Clear the bed to lie on, darlin',_

_Make a mess of me._

_Here's my dress to try on, baby,_

_Let me be your man._

_I will call you pretty, darlin',_

_**Tell me what I am.**_


End file.
